


The Rules Are Wrong

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2013-03-07
Packaged: 2017-11-29 09:22:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 47,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/685357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set immediately after The Reichenbach Fall. Sherlock's phone was recovered from the roof - the first breadcrumb in a trail of clues to help John prove that he was innocent. John needs help from those he trusts, and from those he doesn't know. But will anyone try to stop him? And more importantly, will they succeed? Now Officially AU!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Passcode

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own any of this and no profit is made etc. This is basically a story of John and how he works out Sherlock is innocent.

Not wishing to be rude, John accepted Mrs Hudson’s offer of a cup of tea. He felt emotionally drained and just wanted to head back to Greg’s and sleep, but It had been a hard day for his Landlady too and she deserved some company since John had left her alone, for the time being, at Baker Street.

 

For the past week he had been staying on Lestrade’s sofa bed, and hadn’t set foot inside 221B since the day after Sherlock jumped from the rooftop. The flat had felt odd that day, not empty, with the absence of Sherlock. In fact it had seemed to radiate anger and frustration that the eccentric consulting detective was no longer causing chaos. As he had sat in his chair John became aware of everything in the room that belonged, and defined, Sherlock. The skull had stared at him from the mantelpiece. It almost looked sad, as though it had been willing John, _pleading_ John, to talk to it, to confide in it, even to bloody hide stuff in it. The Smiley face on the wall on the other hand had appeared to smirk at John. It dared him to do as Sherlock once had and fire at it with his handgun. Mocking him silently. The violin had been leant against its case. It was begging to be played; John could almost feel it yearning to channel the hectic thoughts of a brilliant mind, to calm, to inspire someone, _anyone_. He could almost feel its fear of being packed away, of being forgotten. John couldn’t stand it, couldn’t bear to stay in the room that had been infested by, but no longer inhabited Sherlock Holmes. He’d rung Lestrade and asked if he could stay at his. Greg had agreed without hesitation, without any questions or doubts. Anything for John Watson. Anything.

The next day John had asked Mrs Hudson to send over a bag of clothes and toiletries. He informed her he would be staying with Greg for a little while. He felt guilty for leaving Mrs Hudson alone, but she understood. She always understood.

 

John sat down at Mrs Hudson’s kitchen table and looked up towards his home. He sighed. He was going to move back in soon. But not yet; not for now. He sipped his tea and allowed a small moan of satisfaction to escape his lips. The tea was strong, hot and _perfect_. Mrs Hudson chuckled lightly but said nothing. Tea will always make things just a little bit better, even if it is for the briefest of moments. But those moments are always needed, even if they are over too quickly, at least they were _there_.

 When he was done he stood up and put his coat on. He felt a small object thump against his hip. He smiled sadly. It was Sherlock’s IPhone. He resisted the urge to get it out in front of his Landlady and settled for simply pressing his hand against his pocket as though he was checking that he had his own phone before he left.

“Right! I think I have everything, I better be going before Greg starts to worry.”

“Of course dear” said Mrs Hudson with a hint of sadness. John hugged her tightly.

“Thank you…Thank you so much for… for coming and, well, being with me today. It meant… I mean… I’ll be back here… I’ll be home soon. I promise.”

As they released each other Mrs Hudson gently patted his cheek and whispered, “I know John, I know. Be safe.”

Though Lestrade lived only a twenty-minute walk away John wanted to get home as soon as possible and go to bed. He hailed a cab and clambered in. Of course he would never admit out loud that that was only part of the reason. The ‘pain’ in his leg was slowly returning, he had managed to hide his faint limp from Greg and Mrs Hudson for now, as it only started after several minutes of walking, but he knew it was gradually getting worse again. The phantom pain annoyed him. It frustrated him. ‘Another thing to add to the list’ he thought as he pulled out Sherlock’s phone. Yes, the phone annoyed him too. The screen had cracked when Sherlock dropped it on the roof, but the rest of it worked fine, and the screen was still mostly visible. No, the thing that frustrated John was that Sherlock, the clever bugger, had put a pass-code lock on it. All John had been able to do was turn it on and off, and look at the Wallpaper Sherlock had chosen – A picture of Bluebell the rabbit, showing off its _unusual_ skills.

The memory it gave of the Baskerville case made John emit an inexplicable giggle. It also made him suddenly furrow his brow in deep thought. Lestrade had given him the phone the first night he stayed over, claiming that the team dealing with the investigation to the ‘suicide’ hadn’t felt the need to examine it for further evidence. When they had discovered it was locked Greg had chuckled and told John that he had once found Donovan and Anderson trying to guess the code after they had ‘found’ Sherlock’s phone at the Yard. Lestrade had of course confiscated it and given it back to Sherlock (not before being safe in the knowledge that the code was not ‘S H E R’, ‘J O H N’ or anything like that). After thanking him, he was obviously in one of his more polite moods that day, Sherlock had apparently confided in Lestrade, “John would know. He’d be able to figure it out from the picture.” Before stalking away.

Naturally John had risen to the challenge and had attempted a selection of 4 numbered codes that could be related to the H.O.U.N.D. case:

“D R U G” WRONG  
“G L O W” WRONG  
“M I S T” WRONG  
“B L U E”… Nope… “B E L L”.. Worth a try!  
“M O O R” WRONG

He fiddled with the phone as he thought through many other possible codes ‘U M Q R… No that’s five! And so is H O U N D. Besides Sherlock wouldn’t be that obvious, that BORING.’ Then John thought about Sherlock’s revelation by the fireplace, how his emotions had ‘betrayed’ him. He swizzled the phone around and quickly typed in  “3 3 2 7” or “F E A R”, a short pause and… ‘WRONG’. He read the cursed word in Sherlock’s dry tone, which just aggravated him even more. ‘Ok John think! What else was there about that case? What about those words Henry saw in his dream? ‘Liberty’ and ‘In’? Liberty is more likely to be connected to something else being the longer word… it means freedom… Free!’ Again John started typing “3 7 3 3” (“F R E E”)… WRONG “Oh for God’s sake!” John yelled, and in doing so almost scared the Cab driver out of his skin as he pulled up outside Greg’s address.

“Sorry, sorry! How much was it?"


	2. The Mind Field

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John attempts to figure out Sherlock's passcode.

“John would know. He’d be able to figure it out from the picture.” Right. So a picture of a _rabbit_ was supposed to tell John how Sherlock’s thick head had worked.

Sighing he let himself into Lestrade’s London townhouse and slowly moved himself into the living room. Finally he plonked himself down on the sofa and moaned. ‘At last!’ he thought, as he lolled his head onto the back of the coach. However, the world decided to pick this very moment to throw at the tired Doctor John Watson a very concerned Greg Lestrade who had made him dinner.

“Smells delicious, I’ll be right through Greg!” Silently cursing his polite nature, John smiled tiredly as he followed Greg into the kitchen. There was a dining room in the house, but since it was just the two of them they ate their meals at the small table in the centre of the modern kitchen. Greg had made spaghetti bolognese, simple and delicious. John couldn’t help but smack his lips as he took his first bite.

“It’s lovely Greg. Thank you.”

Lestrade grinned at John, pleased that he liked his cooking, also that he had someone to cook for. Greg and his wife had separated again a month ago; he doubted they would work things out this time. He was a good chef, but only cooking for one person became boring very quickly.

“You’re welcome John. Nothing special though I’m afraid. I…ummm how was, you know… um, today?”

There was a long pause where John considered his answer. He smiled and then looked at Greg in the eyes. He needed to be honest.

“It was…difficult. But it was also… nice. I was, I _am_ still angry with…not him, just THIS…” John shook his head slightly, “You know what Greg? I’m glad I went. I am upset and confused and I needed… It was good.” John bowed his had and finished the rest of his spag bol in silence. Lestrade knew better than to pursue the conversation further.

After dinner Greg left John and went upstairs to bed. John settled himself down into the sofa bed’s warm sheets. And closed his eyes.

An hour later John was still awake and clutching Sherlock’s IPhone. His brain had suddenly decided it liked solving riddles when his body wanted sleep, and wouldn’t give in. ‘Let’s see… Sherlock said _I_ would get this, so what do _I_ know about that wretched bunny other that it’s name, it glows in the dark and is normally white? I know Dr. Stapleton altered the animals genetic structure to create…’gene’!!’… “G E N “…’wait, I tried that already twenty minutes ago! Ok, ok focus John. Breath…’

 _“You should really learn how to build a Mind Map John, I’d always imagined your mind to be like the battlefield you know; it seems to be full of chaos and has everything distributed randomly, but if you observe it you will see patterns forming, it contains structures, links, connections, you can analyse it and predict what will happen next. Think John…”_ John opened his eyes and glanced quickly around Lestrade’s deserted living room. He had just heard Sherlock’s voice in his head. It obviously wasn’t Sherlock’s voice, it was his own inner monologue, but he had made it _sound_ like Sherlock. ‘Ok John; ignore the fact that you are imagining Sherlock giving you advice inside your own bloody head, and just, well listen to it! It makes sense. A mind map…? Right, of course - Sherlock had his ‘Mind Palace’ but he had said once that it could be anywhere.’ John smirked at the thought of Sherlock living in a Palace. Wearing nothing but a sheet of course, as that was his favourite attire for such places. John had actually realised a while ago why a ‘Palace’ might have been appropriate for Sherlock’s ‘Mind Map’ - he always joked about Mycroft being the British Government, but simple sibling rivalry would make him want to therefore be the King. John had never spoken of this theory to Sherlock, and he briefly wondered whether the younger Holmes would have been amused or irritated of John’s perception of his relationship with Mycroft.

‘Can’t worry about that now. Just focus. Ok, so the battlefield, like Afghanistan’. Slowly John began to create what he began to refer to as his ‘Mind Field’ he focused on the Baskerville case and began organising groups of ‘Troops’ and sending them out into the ‘Field’ - there was a troop of ‘side effects’ caused by the drug, John decided to send them farther out as none of them seemed to provide him with many ideas. Next there was a troop of all the animals he’d seen in the labs. He began to see how each animal had been kept, how many were assigned to each cage depending on size and… CAGE! Bluebell had ‘escaped’ without a forced entry into its cage at home, and John had hidden inside what he had assumed to be the cage that the Hound had ‘escaped’ from. Without losing focus he brought the soldier he’d assigned the word ‘cage’ to back to the base. In a purely ruthless state of mind he gathered all the words he had previously tried together and had sent them to a remote location. He then gave an order to fire a Shell towards said location. The explosion was very satisfactory.

John opened his eyes and smiled. That had been…strangely relaxing. He slowly pulled out the dreaded IPhone and typed in “2 2 4 3” (“C A G E”) he smiled before pressing the last digit… he knew what was going to happen now…

Sure Enough: WRONG

Sighing, John set the phone down on the side. And went to sleep.


	3. It's Just a Coincidence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a visit from his sister Harry. She introduces him to someone special, who unknowingly helps him crack the code.

Over the next few days John visited his Mind Field regularly. The more knowledge he stored the larger the battlefield became. John kept it all under tight observation and control though. No one in the field ever disobeyed his orders. He came up with several more ideas, but none were successful. With each failed attempt he sent the word into ‘No-man’s Land’ to be destroyed. He found that this eased his frustration.

There was one word, however, that he was reluctant to send away - “O N L Y”. The memory of Sherlock confessing John’s importance to him had sent John a jolt of grief. He had been Sherlock’s closest friend. His only friend. His sudden surge of emotions had sent the battlefield into chaos as he lost control of his thoughts, of his strategy. He had never told Sherlock how much that had meant to him, to be number one. He had always been the sidekick, the second option. At university, when Mike Stamford had been thinner, the two of them were always top of their year in grades and were also considered to be the dishiest by the female population. But Mike had always been _just_ ahead. He had always got the slightly better grade, and the slightly cuter girl. Solving cases with Sherlock had been similar. John was an intelligent bloke but Sherlock was just so fast, so _good_ at what he did. He had enjoyed writing the blog and being there to assist if Sherlock ever asked for it, but he always felt like he wasn’t really needed. Until that moment outside the Church. “I’ve only got one”, the four words that had washed away all of John’s anger. John felt the tremor in his left hand as he picked up the phone and typed in “6 6 5 9”.

He was shocked to feel relief when the ever familiar ‘WRONG’ appeared on the screen (always read in Sherlock’s dry tone). His tremor ceased and he felt himself submerge a laugh. Sherlock’s code to his phone wouldn’t be that personal, he wasn’t likely to have made the same mistake as Irene Adler. John was again looking in the wrong places. After restoring the order he had briefly lost, John sent “O N L Y” back into the field to help the rather small troop he had labelled “The emotional range of Sherlock Holmes”. They had already suffered the loss of “F E A R” because of his ruthlessness, and sure enough ‘Bored’, ‘Sarcasm’ and ‘Addiction’ were relieved to see that the soldier had returned. John chuckled at his own thoughts, ‘I can see why Sherlock did this so often now’.

John woke up late the next morning. He went through to the kitchen and made himself some toast (with strawberry jam) and boiled the kettle. As he put the Jam back in the fridge and closed the large door he saw a piece of paper pinned to the metallic surface with four alphabet magnets spelling “JOHN”. He removed the piece of paper and poured himself a cup of very strong Coffee.

**_“Morning John, I didn’t want to wake you up! The Yard has called me in today – an urgent update on the ‘Hansel and Gretel’ case; the girl’s doctor has just confirmed that she is ‘ready’ to be questioned again. I wouldn’t normally be brought in to it but she apparently requested that I was the one to talk to her. I’m sure you understand how important this is, and that it may take a while. I know you have your sister coming over today and I am sorry that I won’t be able to meet her. Maybe some other time! Please send her my best wishes though._ **  
_**Have a good day.** _  
**_-Greg L.”_**

“SHIT!” - John had completely forgotten about his sister’s visit. He glanced at his watch and quickly drank the rest of his coffee. Luckily he had plenty of time for a shower before he had to go collect her from King’s Cross. It was good news about the case though, even if it meant Greg working far more than he should be. ‘I hope that man gets paid triple on overtime, he certainly deserves it.’

She was doing well at the moment, Harry. She was introducing him today to a new girlfriend, Diane, who seemed quite determined to help his little sister overcome the drinking problem. Harry had spoken very fondly of her over the phone, claiming her to be supportive and understanding. John was pleased for her, particularly after the mess with Clara.

John had been very fond of Clara, and still felt a twinge of anger that Harry had not given her another chance. Clara had confessed that she had slept with someone else. She’d admitted to the mistake and she regretted it. John understood perfectly that Harry had felt betrayed and had been angry, but he also felt an unwavering respect for Clara that she had come clean. It would have been so easy for her to stay silent.

John found out about their break up when he’d returned from Afghanistan. Harry’s drinking problem had increased and he couldn’t persuade her to talk to Clara. She gave him the phone, claiming that she didn’t want anything in the house that reminded her of “That Bitch”. John had been reluctant to accept it, but knew Harry would just throw it away otherwise out of spite. He hadn’t needed a phone while abroad, and had very little money to spend on luxuries. John and Harry hadn’t necessarily been close, but they’d got on reasonably well, and he had suddenly felt very detached from his younger sibling. He thought she had been too harsh on Clara, and too stubborn for not seeking help with the drinking. He had therefore accepted the phone, but refused the offer of a place to stay.

He now knew that Harry had been scared. Scared of being alone, scared of being hurt again, and scared of other people’s judgement. He wished to make it up to her now. It was he who had been too harsh, and he had been too judgemental. They had both been through traumatic experiences and should have been there for each other. Luckily John had found Sherlock, and now Harry had Diane.

* * *

Slightly delayed, the train pulled into the platform at 20 minutes past 12. John was waiting patiently against one of the platform pillars with his arms crossed and one leg slightly bent. He spotted Harry easily as she stumbled off the train. Her natural red hair was always kept short and stylish, she was also wearing a fitted white jumper and dark jeans. As she spotted John and waved enthusiastically he noticed the young woman next to her turn around to search for whom she was waving to. ‘Ah! Diane’ he deduced as he smiled and waved back.

Diane was _gorgeous_ , ‘Well done Harry!... wait no! NOT GOOD John! Not. Good’ – but she was. In a drastic contrast to his sister, Diane’s dark, thick hair flowed past her shoulders in beautifully soft curls. She was slightly taller than Harry and had a lovely figure, highlighted by a tight, long-sleeved red top and fitted jeans. It seemed the two women shared the same fashion sense; bold, but simple.

Harry reached John first and launched herself into a hug. John stumbled backwards slightly, but returned the embrace enthusiastically once his balance had been restored. “Hey sis!” Harry let go and looked at John. Her eyes were bright and happy, yet John could see the slight bags hidden under the makeup, and he could feel the slight tremor in her hands that was a common sign of alcohol withdrawal. ‘Runs in the family’ he mused.

She suddenly looked very serious, “How are you John? You’re… you’re coping ok?” John was slightly taken aback by the genuine concern on Harry’s face. She and Sherlock had never met, but she knew how close they had been. In honesty, John was still holding back a lot of his pain and grief. His therapist urged him to let it out, but he didn’t know how. So he just held it back and kept his mind distracted with other things as much as he could.

He nodded and mumbled “Yeh… uh yeh I’m doing fine thanks, yeh.” After a brief smile, he glanced towards Diane and raised his eyebrow, quickly changing the subject and causing Harry to giggle at his expression.

“Haha! Oh John, yes, well um, I’d like you to meet Diane, Di, this is my big brother John.”

After the customary shake of the hand and kiss on the cheek John gave his most charming smiled and said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you Diane!”

The young woman smiled back and replied “Oh no! The pleasure is all mine! Believe me Harriet talks about you all the time, I’ve been really looking forward to this.” Her voice was soft and deep, and up close John could see her big pale green eyes and striking features. A flash of recognition tried to charge its way across his mind, but he decided to ignore it.

“So,” John said rubbing his hands together, “who’s hungry?”

The rest of the day consisted of the three of them having a lovely lunch, in which Harry and John revealed stories about each other growing up to Diane, and Diane and Harry told John all about their relationship, they’d first met 6 months before, and were thinking about moving in together sometime soon. They then visited some of the museums around London, and went on the London Eye. This gave John several opportunities to speak to each of them individually, and also give them some privacy. He had asked Harry how her treatment was going, and how she was managing at her job, all very positive and hopeful. Whilst Harry was enjoying the view over the Thames on the Eye, John and Diane sat on the bench in the middle of the capsule and decided to exchange mobile numbers.

“OK that’s great Di, ermmm oh! What’s you’re last name by the way?”

“Adler.”

“Ad…Adler?”

“Yes.”

Suddenly John noticed Diane’s eyes, hair and defined cheeks again and realised who he had seen them on before. Lowering his voice he asked, “Are you, by any chance, related to Irene?”

“You knew Irene?” Di’s eyebrows rose incredibly high “I wouldn’t have thought you to be _that_ kind of man Doctor Watson.”

John’s eyes widened “Oh! I mean… no! No I wasn’t a _client_ of hers!”

Diane laughed slightly and patted John’s knee, “Don’t worry John,” she winked, “I was joking.” John suppressed a giggle, and Diane continued with a more serious tone. “Irene was my cousin. She cut herself off from the family when she was 18. Wanted to ‘make her way in the world’. I wish I could say I was upset when news broke of her death, but I honestly didn’t know her. I only ever remember meeting her once, and of course, no one in the family approved of her occupation, therefore she’s rarely mentioned, if at all. Though I am curious as to how you knew her.”

“Me? Oh, well, she was actually a client of Sherlock’s and mine. We helped her with a case just a few months before she died.”

“Really?! Well isn’t that a coincidence?”

“Sorry, what is a coincidence?” Harry said plonking herself next to John, joining in the conversation.

“Oh just something about a distant relative of mine being part of one of John’s cases. Nothing much.”

“Well, you know what they say, there is no such thing as coincidence!”

 **BANG!** John’s eye’s widened and he was immediately thrown into his Mind Field. There had been an explosion. He could sense injured soldiers who would need to be examined. Among them he noticed ‘Coincidence’ and ‘Bored’. He quickly brought them in to the medical centre and left them there as he returned his mind to the present. He smiled and returned to the conversation with Harry and Diane

* * *

After the Eye the trio went for an early dinner before the evening show of Les Misérables at the Queen’s Theatre in the West End. John was getting restless and it wasn’t until the first act of the show began, that he felt safe enough to close his eyes and visit the battlefield again. Ignoring the main field, John immediately targeted the medical tent and examined the soldiers that he’d placed in there:

‘“Coincidence”- the word that had triggered the explosion… ok the link to the bunny, the link to the…ah! Of Course the Rabbit itself had been the link. It had connected Kirsty Stapleton and her beloved pet to Baskerville. Ok so now… “Bored”, hmmmmm the Baskerville case had been anything but boring! Why was that word here! Ok there had to be something, maybe another derivation of the word, “Tedious”? No… no… wait… what about…? YES!”

John re-entered the real world and reached immediately for his pocket. He found _his_ phone, aka the WRONG Phone. SHIT! He’d left it at Greg’s, he’d have to wait!

John tried to relax and enjoy the rest of the performance. Les Mis was one of his favourite musicals, and he knew Harry was fond of it too. Diane had revealed that she had never seen it before, and didn’t quite know what to expect. The slight dampness on her cheek after a breathtaking performance of ‘Bring Him Home’ told John that Diane was thoroughly sold. He smiled. He counted down the minutes ‘till he could get his hands on that phone.

After the show Harry and Di said goodbye to John outside the theatre, he was getting a cab to Greg’s and their hotel was just around the corner. Their train home was early in the morning, John would have invited them over, but it hadn’t seemed fair to ask Greg to provide sleeping arrangements for two more people. Diane’s hug was short but tight, and she gave John a quick kiss on the cheek. Harry’s hug was much longer, and much tighter, causing John to gasp for air.

“Ring me to let me know you’re home safe tomorrow?”

Harry rolled her eyes in mock frustration “Allllright.”

He nodded, satisfied, then looked at Diane and winked, “Take care of Trouble here for me?”

She smiled, “Of course.”

John hailed a cab, and waved goodbye as they turned ‘round the corner. He gave the Cabbie Lestrade’s address, “as fast as you can please.”

John crashed through the door and ran into the living room. ‘Where is it, where is it..? Ah-Ha!’ He almost dived onto the bookshelf where he had placed the phone the night before. His whole body was shaking with anticipation, apart from his hands. Tonight his hands were steady.

3 – “D”  
8 – “U”  
5 – “L”  
5 – “L”

The IPhone clicked open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the line was "I've just got one" but by the time I realised my mistake I had already written the paragraph and changing the attempted code to "J U S T" didn't seem to fit.


	4. You and You alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John consults his imaginary Sherlock about his choice of passcode.

John just stood staring at the beauty that was the unlocked screen of Sherlock’s phone. He’d done it! He’d figured it out!

 _“Excellent John. I_ had _expected you to solve it slightly faster than that, but well done anyway.”_

‘Shut up Sherlock. Not all of us are the world’s only consulting detective you know?!’ Sherlock would’ve just smirked at that. John knew of no one else who was able to deliver an insult within a compliment like Sherlock had done.

 _“So, what do you think?”_ Sherlock had been really childish sometimes; he was so eager to be complimented, so desperate for John to tell him how clever he was. Of course, the only betrayal he had ever given of this was a small twitch of those pale lips, and a comical raise of the eyebrow as he waited for John to answer him.

Sitting down on the sofa, John rubbed his tired eyes and laughed at himself. ‘Honestly Sherlock, it’s… it’s so… so bloody, typically, YOU!’ The password had ended up being so simple, and almost boring. ‘Like a self-portrait…’ John thought randomly. He couldn’t help but giggle at the sudden knowledge that Sherlock had been typing “DULL” every time he needed to unlock his phone – which had mainly been to reply to the various texts he seemed to have constantly received:

Lestrade telling him about a new case – “D U L L”.  
Mycroft insisting (again) that he contact their mother soon – “D U L L”.  
Molly asking if he wanted to go for a coffee sometime – “D U L L”.  
John reminding him to pick up some milk – “D U L L”.

_“Of course you’re right John – it is boring isn’t it? But what else was I supposed to put my pass code as? Obviously it could have been random, much safer, and the logical choice. I knew though that there was always the possibility that someone would need to access it. I therefore made the code something that you, and you alone John, could figure out. I left you Bluebell, wasn’t that nice of me? Bluebell the rabbit was the ‘coincidence’. Not even my ridiculously nosy brother would have figured it out John, but I knew I had left just enough for you. You have never observed as quickly as I have but you have learnt a lot, my dear friend, and you were with me at every stage. Once you had deduced that ‘coincidence’ was the main clue regarding Bluebell, you would have gone back and remembered what I had said about people who don’t believe in coincidences. DULL people, with DULL lives John – ALL of them. And you know how I hate things that are dull, tedious, slow. They’re boring and just too simple! Our good friend, Miss Adler, made her pass code mimic her deepest desire, so I decided to do the opposite; I set mine to express what annoys me, what aggravates me most.”_

Such a clever approach and overall explanation would have seen Sherlock conclude with a general look of pure smugness. John smiled sadly as he reminded himself that it wasn’t actually Sherlock he was receiving the explanation from, but his own thoughts imitating the memories he contained of the younger man. Despite this he felt himself nod in agreement and mutter “Amazing.” under his breath.

‘I miss you Sherlock.’

 _“Sentiment?”_ John could actually _feel_ the eyebrow rise in humour.

‘Sherlock! I can’t bloody help caring can…’ He took a deep breath ‘I’m sorry, I just don’t know what to do anymore.’

 _“Will caring help you decide what to do?”_ John was surprised to find that sarcasm was absent from the tone of the question. It was a genuine query.

‘No.’ He sighed in resignation. He’d been doing that far too often recently.

 _“Thought so._ Think _John. Just think, and it will come to you. You have the phone, you have your ‘Mind Field’ – I’m pleased you agree with me on the efficiency of such a place, it really is quite intriguing how it works isn’t it? You can figure this out John. You may not have me there to guide you step by step, but it’s not fun if you have someone else tell you everything!”_

‘Right. Ok then… but what _exactly_ am I figuring out Sherlock? Nothing I do will ever bring you back.’

A very long pause.

_“I miss you too.”_

Sighing again, John decided that a full examination of the contents of Sherlock’s phone was required, and that it was probably best to wait until he had had a good night’s sleep and had a whole day to himself. So he put down the phone and went to sleep, silently praising himself again for working it out: “John would know. He’d be able to figure it out…”

He hadn’t let Sherlock down.


	5. Hansel and Gretel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg tells John of his progress on the Kidnapping case.

Greg Lestrade was sat at his kitchen table munching on his cereal and sipping his coffee, white no sugar, when John stumbled in for breakfast the next morning. He was also silently flicking through hand-written notes on his black writing pad with a deep frown set into his face. The dark bags under his eyes betrayed that the inspector had had little, if any, sleep. The eyes themselves, however, were bright and sharp. They eagerly scanned the pages of information; evidently searching for some sort of lead on whatever case he was working on. John remembered the note Greg left him yesterday; it was probably something therefore to do with the ‘Hansel and Gretel’ case. John smiled to himself as he quietly watched the detective; he reminded the Doctor of how Sherlock had looked whenever he had completely immersed himself in solving a case. Despite the often grim nature of his work, John knew that Greg truly loved his job. It stimulated him. It was important to him.

Not wanting to disturb his friend’s thoughts, John set about making his customary toast and coffee as silently as possible. He sat down opposite from Greg and began to munch on his toast slowly. He stared at the black pad in front of Greg and resisted the urge to lean closer so he could get a clearer view of Lestrade’s ever neat handwriting. Instead he sat patiently, as only John could do.

Finally Greg sighed and shoved the pad of paper away, gently rubbing his eyelids in frustration. He saw John looking at him and smiled. “So, how was yesterday? Is your sister ok? And errr… Diane?”

Had that only been yesterday? “Oh errr, yes! It was very nice thanks. It was lovely to see Harry again, and to meet Diane; they seem very settled. I’m pleased for Harry, it’s great to see her happy. How about your day? How was questioning the girl? Err… Claudi wasn’t it?”

“Yeh Claudi, bless her. Well, she’s still very nervous and suffering from mild PTSD so we kept the meeting as brief as possible, and asked only a few questions. We’d of course like to question her brother, Max, as soon as possible, but he’s still recovering from the mercury poisoning in hospital, it may be another week or so until he is able to answer our questions.” Greg paused and looked at John with a very serious look on his face. “Now John, you know as well as I do the importance of confidentiality in these cases, normally I wouldn’t be able to tell you anymore, but this case is related to Sherlock, and therefore you. You must promise me though that you won’t talk about this to anyone.”

John nodded. “Of course Greg; but look, I’m no longer helping the Yard officially with the case now, so if you don’t want to tell me, you don’t have to. I understand.”

Greg smiled sadly before he continued, “Yes but _you_ might be able to tell us something we’ve missed…”

John snorted quietly “I’m not Sherlock Greg.”

“No. But you have often proven yourself to be just as intelligent and observant as him. The receipt you found in the pub at Dartmoor for example. You don’t have to help us again John, but I’d feel better if I told you, just in case you already know of something we don’t.” John could do nothing but smile at the compliment. He nodded his head, inviting Greg to continue. “When we questioned Claudi initially, before Sherlock entered, she claimed that she hadn’t seen the face of the abductor. That of course was quickly doubted when she started screaming her head off when he walked into the room. She has, however, stuck to her story. She never saw the face of the kidnapper. He wore a hood throughout the whole ordeal.” Taking a quick sip of his coffee Lestrade resumed, “Naturally, I then asked her why Sherlock had scared her when he had entered the room. She explained that she recognized you from something, at the time she hadn’t known what, but that it had made her feel incredibly frightened. Now that she has had time to calm down, she has remembered something she had forgotten during the initial questioning: We already knew that after they had been removed from the school the kidnapper had placed them in the back of a van and knocked them out with some sort of gas. But yesterday, she revealed that she had woken up before they reached the sweet factory. According to her there had been a TV screen showing a clip of you and Sherlock on repeat, we assume it was that short news clip that was done about you two after he’d recovered that ‘Reichenbach Falls’ painting. She doesn’t know why but the clip had terrified her and her brother, who was awake also. Which is why we would like to question him as soon as possible too, for confirmation.” Greg rubbed his eyes again and laughed lightly to himself. “Not that being kidnapped wasn’t terrifying enough of course…” He sighed and prodded his now soggy cereal with his spoon. “Anyway, it might go a long way to indicate that Sherlock was not, in fact, the kidnapper. We’ll obviously need more evidence, but it’s a start.”

John could barely hear him. His Mind Field had roared back into life as soon as the phrase “and knocked them out with some sort of gas” had passed Greg’s lips. The battlefield was still mainly focused on everything linked to the Baskerville case and he was suddenly finding himself recalling the troop of soldiers he had labelled ‘The side effects’, and sent far away. He could see them now jogging back to the base; “Paranoia”, “Irrationality”, “Terror”, “Hallucinogenic”. It all fitted.

“The gas Greg!” Lestrade almost fell out of his chair in shock at John’s outburst. “It’s the drug from the H.O.U.N.D. case! It must be!”

Greg looked at him dumbfounded. Then it all clicked together. “Fantastic.” He muttered quietly. “Of course, it makes sense… but _how_ John? How could the kidnapper have got hold of the gas, it was all securely removed from the base.”

That depleted John’s sudden surge of confidence, but not entirely. “I don’t know how, but there must be a way to find out…”

Greg quickly flipped to a new page in the notebook and scribbled down a few lines before snapping it shut again. He got up, downed his coffee and put on his jacket. “I’ll look into it John. Thank you. I’ll try and keep you up to date, and will you also let me know if you think of anything else?”

John nodded. Greg hurried out of the house, leaving John to finish his toast in thoughtful silence.

 _“Congratulations John, you_ almost _figured that out as fast as I would have done.”_

‘There’s no pleasing you sometimes is there?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ideas are not all mine; someone sent me the idea for the H.O.U.N.D. gas on Tumblr a while ago (Anonymously otherwise I would have credited them here). Chapter 6 will be up very soon as it is quite short.


	6. The Note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds Sherlock's note to him.

After finishing his breakfast John sauntered slowly back into the living room. On the coffee table waiting for him patiently, was Sherlock’s IPhone. John retrieved his own notepad and pen, and made himself comfortable on the sofa. He picked up the phone, noting that it would need to be charged again soon; ‘Stupid IPhone battery life’, and entered “D U L L” onto the keypad. The screen opened up, and John was presented with the small collection of Apps that Sherlock had felt the need to download:

He saw one that contained a detailed periodic table, a general language translator, an app of sign language symbols; ‘probably used with his bloody homeless network’, a map of the London Underground, Yell, BBC News, and so on. John smiled at all the little icons; ‘No games Sherlock?’ No reply. ‘You know, you might not have been so bored all the time if you had occasionally indulged in something like that. I think ‘Angry Birds’ for example would have been right up your street. You would have been able to shoot things and destroy pigs without damaging Mrs Hudson’s property, or traumatising public on the Tube and coming home covered in blood. Everybody would have been happy!’

_“BORING John! You know my mind needed a proper challenge. What good would a silly little game have done?”_

‘You have clearly _never_ played Angry Birds.’

_“Hmph! Now, stop getting distracted. You’re going back to your old habits far too quickly John.”_

‘Sorry Sherlock.’ John couldn’t contain his childish giggle though. Imagining Sherlock playing something on his phone like ‘Angry Birds’ was hilarious. He could see Sherlock becoming obsessed with it; even so far as to refuse accepting a new case until he had completed a particularly frustrating level, or even the whole game. He allowed himself the laugh. Then turned back to the phone and focused on the task in hand.

He thought about going through Sherlock’s text messages at first, but something stopped him pushing the little green icon. He and Sherlock had been close, very close. There was little the detective had not known about John, whether John had actually confided in him or not, and he often felt that he knew far more about Sherlock than anyone else had, even sometimes Mycroft. It still felt nevertheless like an invasion of privacy to simply scroll through the dead man’s personal messages. John was curious about who Sherlock could have been texting, and what about, but part of him was also scared about what he might discover. Pushing his troubled thoughts far away into battle he decided instead to concentrate on Sherlock’s methods for solving cases. Sherlock’s mind had been unbelievably accommodating; with thanks, undoubtedly, to his ‘Mind Palace’. Even so, Sherlock had always kept brief notes on his phone incase he had accidentally ‘deleted’ anything that might have ended up being of importance. John quickly scanned through the little icons until he found the App he was looking for: “Notes”.

There were several cases listed, all given a title relating to the first line of the note:

“Comic Book website.”

“Red marks covered body.”

“Dusseldorf plane crash.”

“Aluminium crutch replaced.”

“The Woman.”

“Pottery art Students.”

“Gigantic Hound”

“Lost Painting”

“Breadcrumbs”

“I O U”

John smirked at some of them ‘And you thought _my_ titles were ridiculous’. There was one, however, that caught John’s attention. It was the most recent one. It was dated on the day of Sherlock’s death. The day Sherlock committed suicide. The one labelled simply “John”. He felt his heart hammer as he read the word over and over again. He slowly tapped his own name.

 

**_“John_ **

**_Remember; the rules are wrong.”_ **

 

John stared at the screen. He stood up and grabbed his jacket. Ensuring he had his wallet, his own and Sherlock’s phone, and his keys, he left Greg’s town house and hailed a cab.

“Where to?”

“221B Baker Street.”

It was time to go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got inspiration for the 'titles' of the notes from "John Watson's Personal Blog"


	7. Colonel Mustard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John goes back to 221B to figure out why 'The Rules are Wrong'.

John paid the taxi driver and stood outside the black door. His keys felt like lead in his jacket pocket. Did he knock, or just go straight in? Mrs. Hudson would be thrilled to see him, and would worry if she heard noises in the flat and didn’t know it was John. He pulled out his keys, found the right one and unlocked the door.

“Mrs. Hudson?” He called. No reply came. Letting out a small sigh of relief he began to clamber up the staircase. He didn’t want to avoid Mrs. Hudson, but he’d rather wait so that they could have a proper reunion. He reached the top of the second flight of stairs and paused for the briefest of moments at the unusually closed door, before entering the flat.

He was shocked to find himself grinning from ear to ear as soon as he crossed the threshold. He’d expected it to feel strange and empty. He thought it would be uncomfortable as it had the last time he was there. Though Sherlock’s presence was still littered throughout the room, John could also now see his very own imprint on 221B: His books, his writing notes for the blog, his favourite mug, and his wonderful, comfortable, glorious armchair. He looked around at all the small reminders of the past few years of his life; 221B wasn’t cold, it wasn’t strange, instead it was welcoming.

Mrs. Hudson had seen to it that the fridge, cupboards and freezer had been emptied of most of their contents, not that there had been much in the first place. There was still some tea, coffee, and sachets of milk that Sherlock had liked to ‘obtain’ from various coffee shops, just incase they ran out at home, which they did often. There was even some pasta and tinned tuna in one of the cupboards. John filled the kettle and turned it on. As it began boiling he fetched his favourite mug and put a teabag in it ready. As he waited he studied the mug, it had been a present from Lestrade last Christmas: “Keep Calm and Write a Blog.” John didn’t know why he liked it so much, but it had quickly become his most used mug. He remembered that Lestrade had bought Sherlock a mug too; his had had a map of the Solar System on it. It had NOT been Sherlock’s favourite mug. John silently wondered where Sherlock had put it; he had used it occasionally, but only really when Mrs. Hudson hadn’t been up and done the washing up for them.

The kettle boiled and he made his tea, adding two sachets of milk. He leant against the counter as he sipped the gloriously hot liquid. The kitchen looked very bare without all of Sherlock’s equipment in there. John had never realised how big the room actually was before. He almost missed the sight of severed human limbs and other various body parts. The smell, on the other hand, he was pleased no longer remained. He finished his tea, set his mug down in the sink, and went back into the living room.

**“The Rules are Wrong.”**

He turned and stared at the wall above the fireplace. Sherlock had famously gone into a major paddy after he’d lost THAT game of Cluedo. He had even pinned the Cluedo board to the wall next to the mirror with a knife. It hadn’t been removed since, and John and Mrs. Hudson agreed never to play it with him again. Standing on his tip-toes so he could reach, John removed the knife, which was quite stiff, and retrieved the board from the wall. Not sure exactly what he was looking for, he started to examine the square board. There was a small coffee stain in one of the corners, and of course the knife had left a small, almost neat, gash in the middle. Otherwise the object was unmarked, just as John thought it would be; ‘Just a bloody Cluedo board.’

_“Obviously.”_

Resisting the urge to throw the game across the room at an imaginary Sherlock, John settled for discarding it onto what had been Sherlock’s chair. He then began searching for the game’s box. Twirling on the spot, a quick scan of the room proved useless. John stared at the many piles of books, boxes, files and _things_ he and Sherlock had accumulated over the months of living together. He let out an exasperated sigh, looked over his shoulder and raised a quizzical eyebrow at the skull. “I don’t suppose you know where it is do you?”

The formidable trademark grin was all he got in reply. It was a look that, to John, said; “Even if I did know and I had the ability to tell you, I probably wouldn’t.” Sighing again, John sank into his chair and closed his eyes. His Mind Field was relatively calm at the moment; it appeared they were all waiting for him to give some orders. He recalled the troop of memories, and singled out the soldier linked to the Cluedo game. Under his uniform the soldier was wearing a yellow shirt. ‘Yes you were Colonel Mustard remember; Mrs. Hudson was Mrs. Peacock, because she likes purple (plus she starts one square closer to a room than anyone else), and Sherlock had been Miss Scarlett just so that he could go first’.

* * *

With the soldier offering him hints occasionally, John quickly played through the memory of the game in his mind; they’d kept the box under the table as they’d played. At the end when Sherlock had gone into a rage Mrs. Hudson and John had been left to pick up all the pieces that had been scattered all over the living room. Sherlock had gone into his room to sulk, allowing John and Mrs. H  to giggle privately at his childishness.

“Oh dear he is very upset about all this isn’t he?”

“Don’t worry; it’s Sherlock, he’ll be fine. Just leave him to have a strop for now.”

“That’s a good idea, but shall we just make a promise now never to play this or even mention it to him again.”

“That is the best idea I’ve heard all day Mrs. Hudson.”

“Where are you going to put the box?”

“Ermmm I think I’ll put it under his violin case, he never puts the bloody thing away so he’ll never actually discover it there.”

“Alright, I’ll leave you to it. I’ll come up in a couple of hours with some tea and biscuits, that ought to cheer him up.”

“Have I ever told you you’re a saint?”

“Many times dear, but don’t worry I’ll never tire of it.”

“See you soon.”

“Take care of him won’t you? I hate the thought of you two arguing you know?”

“We’re not… yes of course Mrs. Hudson.” 

* * *

 John emerged from the Mind Field and immediately leaped up and made his way towards the violin case. _“You see John - you should’ve gone to your Mind Field straight away, it would have saved you so…”_

‘Not NOW Sherlock!’ Sherlock didn’t say anything else, but John knew he was doing his stupid little pout and pleading eyes. ‘You’re putting me off.’ He explained.

Sherlock laughed. _“Should I face the other way?”_

‘You’re not as bad as Anderson! But please just let me do this, you can gloat later if you want to.’

_“Fine! I’ll just go and rant at the skull then.”_

‘Thank you.’ John was gently placing the violin and bow on Sherlock’s chair, next to the Cluedo board, before tossing aside the bulky case and some sheets of music. “Ah ha!” There it was; a bit battered and beaten, but it was there behind the case, slotted next to the bookshelf. ‘Gotcha!’ It rattled as he removed it from its hiding spot and placed it on the table. He removed the lid and started riffling through the contents. Apart from the board, everything seemed to be in place. The six coloured plastic ‘suspects’ were all there, plotting their next murders most likely, as were all the items and cards. John pouted and scrunched his eyebrows together… what was missing. ‘OF COURSE! ‘John lightly slapped his forehead at his own idiocy. ‘The rules; where are the rules?’ He searched the box again, not there. He even unfolded the Cluedo board and shook it, in the vague hope that the rules would magically appear where he knew they hadn’t been earlier. “Oh for fu-“ His mobile ring tone cut him off and he fumbled around in his pocket and answered the call without looking at the name on the screen.

“What?”

“Oh errm sorry John, it’s me Harry!”

“Shit, yeh um hey sis! How’re you?” John tried to compose himself. He could hear Harry giggling quietly

“We’re ok John. Just calling to let you know we’re back safe and sound, as per your request.”

“Great! The train journey wasn’t too bad then?”

“Much better than the one we got coming in, but still a train journey. Are you all right? You sound… how do I put it? Distracted.”

“I’m fine Harry, you just caught me in the middle of something, that’s all.”

“So you are distracted then?” She giggled again. “Don’t think you can get anything like that past me bro. Little sisters may be annoying brats, but we notice _everything_.”

“I am well aware of that fact Harry.” John laughed.

“Good. I won’t disturb you anymore then. But feel free to call me anytime if you need a chat John.”

“I will do, same goes for you Harry.”

“Ciao!”

John smiled as he put his phone onto the table. He removed his jacket and placed it over the back of one of the wooden chairs. Leaning forward against the chair, John once again closed his eyes and visited his Mind Field. The soldier was waiting patiently for him and he dove back into the memory of that day. He replayed Sherlock’s temper tantrum before he left the room and suddenly noticed the small pamphlet in the detective’s hands. He’d had the rules! He’d tried to prove that the victim could have been the murderer! Opening his eyes again he turned and strolled straight towards Sherlock’s bedroom. As he placed his hand on the doorknob, he paused. He’d rarely gone in Sherlock’s bedroom; they’d both made a silent agreement to respect each other’s privacy within their individual rooms. John hadn’t disturbed Sherlock when he was in there, and Sherlock had never intruded on John’s personal space upstairs. If it was urgent they would knock or call, but very rarely actually enter. John experienced the same uncomfortable feeling he’d had this morning when he was looking through Sherlock’s IPhone. Something about examining the more personal side of Sherlock’s life made him feel awkward. ‘Why am I doing this anyway? What will a bloody pamphlet on the ‘Rules of Cluedo’ prove? Why is this so bloody important all of a sudden?’

_“Why don’t you ask your leg?”_

‘My leg?’

_“How’s the limp?”_

It was true. His limp had started to slowly return in the weeks after Sherlock’s death, but since the day after he’d visited the grave, the day he’d started to properly solve the code to Sherlock’s phone, the psychosomatic pain had not plagued him once.

_“Looks like I’m not the only one who needs cases to solve.”_

John nodded to himself. He went to turn the handle and paused again. Smiling to himself, he asked ‘Do you mind…?’

 _“Not at all John.”_ John opened the door and briefly scanned the room from the entrance. _“I would save you time and tell you its not in here, but you wouldn’t believe me.”_

‘No you’re right. I wouldn’t.’ He stepped inside fully, leaving the door open behind him. The first thing he noticed was that the room was shockingly _tidy_. The bed was made, and the various shoes and clothes were all in the small wardrobe in the corner of the room. ‘Couldn’t have taken this much care in the living room I suppose?’

_“Seeing but not observing, as always John.”_

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

_“The room is tidy, because there is not much to tidy. I did all of my experiments in the kitchen, and all of my thinking in the living room.”_

‘Since when does _thinking_ require…?”

_“Ah but you know it does John! Think about all my tools I have used on cases – my laptop, my phone, my violin, the nicotine patches, or cigarettes when I could find them, the skull. They’re all in there! I used this room for sleep, and I barely did that, or getting changed I suppose. Anyway, think of it as a blessing that the room’s practically empty. It means it won’t take you long to search it.”_

‘Cheers.’ John drawled.

_“Sarcasm?”_

‘Oh you bet!’ Sure enough, it took John barely 20 minutes to search the room and, apart from the solar system mug, come up empty handed. Just as Sherlock said he would. ‘But it _isn’t_ Sherlock remember? How could your _own_ memory of the man have known that? You must have noticed something John, somewhere. Something that’s wrong, that’s out of place.’ John scanned the room again and tried to remember whether there was anything different from the few times he had actually seen Sherlock’s room before.

Nothing obvious struck him at first, but he felt himself constantly glancing at the bedside table. It housed a very ordinary looking lamp, which had always been there as far as John’s knowledge was concerned, and nothing else. Perhaps that’s what was wrong with it. It was _missing_ something. John stared at the table for a couple of minutes before it struck him; where was Sherlock’s book? He’d always kept a book of some sorts next to his bed for when he had trouble sleeping. ‘Great another thing that’s missing!’ Trying to ignore this, John thought back to a couple of days before the incident at the hospital. He’d seen Sherlock reading ‘Treasure Island’ whilst they had been waiting to speak to Claudi at Scotland Yard, claiming he needed more facts before he could deduce anything further about the case. According to Mycroft it had actually been a childhood favourite of his. It was a small book and easily fitted into one of the many pockets in Sherlock’s coat. Had he also had it with him that day? If he had, why hadn’t it been recovered from the body? Maybe he’d left it in the lab? And what the bloody hell did it have to do with the rules of fucking Cluedo?

He heard his phone beep from the living room. Abandoning his current quest he went back through and glanced at the text from Lestrade:

 _“Records show that none of the vials of gas delivered to us have been taken. However as we did not know how much gas was there originally, some may have been missed out accidentally, or taken deliberately before they reached us.  
_ _Greg”_

John thought for a moment before sending a reply:

 _“Not hard to guess which one. Thanks for the update.  
_ _JW”_

Placing his phone in his jeans pocket, John went through to the kitchen and made himself another cup of tea. Tomorrow he would go to the hospital, he really ought to visit Molly anyway, and ask whether any books had been left there. For now though his stomach began to complain about being neglected. He thought about the pasta and tuna, and then realised that he really didn’t feel like cooking, even something simple. So he grabbed his coat and keys and went for a quick lunch at the café around the corner.

He decided to grab some basic supplies on the way back to the flat and was welcomed at the door by Mrs. Hudson. “John! Oh its good to see you.” The hug was awkward because of the shopping bags, but John returned it as affectionately as he could. Mrs. Hudson helped him up the stairs and began to make them some tea as John packed away the shopping. “I wish I could stay a bit longer John, but I’m meeting a friend for an early dinner tonight. You should have told me you were coming back today.”

“Don’t worry, it was kind of a last minute decision. I’ll still stay at Lestrade’s tonight, but I’ll move back in tomorrow if that’s ok?”

“Of course dear. Oh, before I forget; I’ve left your mail on the mantelpiece; I had a quick look through, nothing too important otherwise I’d have forwarded it on. A lot of sympathy cards I think.”

John smiled, he had noticed the pile, and he’d probably go through them before he left this evening. “Thank you, I’ll be sure to check through them now.”

Checking her watch, Mrs. Hudson quickly downed the remainder of her tea. “Well I must dash! It’s great to see you again dear. I’ll pop back up again tomorrow to make sure you’re all settled in again.” With a cheery grin and a wave, Mrs. Hudson left John alone again in 221B. After doing the washing up John returned to the living room. Since he’d decided to abandon the ‘Cluedo’ puzzle for now, he aimed for the pile of mail and started sorting through the sympathy cards, sales junk, and a couple of the usual bills. It wasn’t till he’d gone through about 7 envelopes that he noticed a small book in amongst the mail, face down. John picked it up and read the short post-it note on the back, written in Mrs. Hudson’s small handwriting:

 **“Molly Hooper brought this around.**  
 **She said Sherlock had leant it to her before he died.  
** **Mrs. H x”**

 John could feel his pulse automatically quicken as he slowly turned the book over. The title ‘Treasure Island’ gleamed up at him and he had to stop himself jumping up into the air with excitement. Turning the book onto its side, the page he was looking for was obvious. He flicked the book open and found the leaflet containing the rules of Cluedo folded up into a makeshift bookmark. Brimming with anticipation, John unfolded the paper and started skimming over the pages. He found nothing until he reached the section called ‘Suspects’; John had to squint to see Sherlock’s handwriting, but next to each printed name, was another:

Miss Scarlett -  _Irene Adler  
_ Colonel Mustard -  _Corporal Lyons  
_ Reverend Green -  _Mycroft  
_ Mrs. White -  _Kitty Riley  
_ Mrs. Peacock -  _Moran  
_ Professor Plum - _Jim_   _Moriarty_

John read the names 10 times. The only one that confused him was ‘Moran’. He recognised the name from somewhere, but for now he couldn’t remember. It wasn’t important at the moment. The thing that was important right now was the name next to Colonel Mustard’s. John grabbed his phone and rung Lestrade.

“John? Are you OK? I’m a bit busy…”

“Corporal Lyons.”

“What?”

“Corporal Lyons was head of security at Baskerville. He would’ve been the one to organize the safe removal and transportation of the gas. He’s the one who stole the vials. And I would put good money on him being the kidnapper too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have personally only played Cluedo ONCE in my entire life. I hope I haven't got anything drastically wrong in reference to the game itself (Please be aware that I based it on the English version, which does slightly differ in the names and objects from the American one), please let me know if I have! Thanks :)


	8. Scotland Yard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg progresses with the case, and Sally faces some of her guilt for Sherlock's 'suicide'. Also John makes some Lasagne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greg's Point of View

Slightly overwhelmed, and more than a little _impressed_ , Greg hung up the phone and started barking orders at his bewildered staff. By the end of the afternoon they’d succeeded in collecting enough information to apply for an arrest warrant. Initially, everyone had thought he’d gone mad: _Corporal Lyons_ of all people??? The more evidence they uncovered however, the more it seemed to make sense.

The young man’s military profile confirmed a positive match for height, weight, and shoe size with the information Anderson’s team had collected from the original footprint evidence. As John had suspected, their records showed that Lyons had been the one in charge of organising and supervising the secure removal and transport of the gas from Baskerville. According to Baskerville’s accounts he’d also taken a weeks holiday surrounding the date of the kidnapping, and no immigration records indicated that he had left the country during this time.

Until they had the authority to arrest Lyons and search his home, all they could do was speculate further and further. Lestrade’s team was brimming with excitement that they’d finally found a lead on the case. Anderson was the only member who refused to accept that the case hadn’t been wrapped up when Sherlock committed suicide; he believed that it had only confirmed his guilt. Sally Donovan had remained incredibly quiet regarding the case so far, and had barely spoken a word since news broke of Sherlock’s death.

Though the investigation was now in full swing, Lestrade could feel himself start to flag after only having had 3 hours rest the previous night. He gave a final list of instructions for the small team who were remaining on duty, and began to pack up his desk, ready to go home.

A faint knock at the open door disturbed him. He looked up and found Sally Donovan waiting patiently at the entrance to his office, quietly studying him with her big brown eyes. “Hi Sally, please come in.” Smiling, she entered and closed the door behind her. She leant back on it as though to prevent anyone else from coming in. “Is something wrong?”

“Erm, no sir…. Well... I, uh…um…” Sally swallowed and tried to compose herself, “…I just, I wanted to say, um good job today sir. It’s great, you know, that we’ve found a lead. And I needed to tell you… I wanted you to know sir… That I’m sorry.”

Greg’s eyebrows scrunched together in confusion. “What for Sal?”

“I was wrong Greg. I was wrong about… I mean; I shouldn’t have…” She trailed of and flicked her eyes around the room, as if she was searching for the words she wanted to say on the walls. Giving up she turned and looked at Lestrade, who met her gaze steadily. “Sherlock.”

Greg nodded sadly. They both stood there quietly for a couple of minutes, tension seeping into the large room around them. Greg suddenly sighed and looked at his best colleague. “Donovan, it is part of our jobs to question _everything_ ; evidence, sources, reliability of witnesses. You followed your instincts, therefore you have nothing to be sorry for. You were simply doing your job; doing it bloody well I might add, certainly better than I was.”

“But it lead to…”

“No Sally.” Lestrade quietly interjected, shaking his head. “It did not lead to that. I don’t know what did lead to it Sal, but I’ll find out, and I promise it wasn’t anything to do with you.” Sally simply bowed her head and nodded. Instinctively, Lestrade walked over to her and pulled her into a warm hug. Whispering into her thick hair he said, “You weren’t to know it Sal, no one was, but he was innocent. We need to prove that now. Help me prove it? For Sherlock, and for John.”

Donovan nodded into Lestrade’s chest and mumbled, “Of course boss.” Lestrade stroked the think curls and lightly kissed the top of her head soothingly. He released the hug and looked down at her, giving a reassuring smile.

“Now; go home and get some rest. I’ve got a feeling we’re all going to need to be alert tomorrow.” Sally gave him a single nod, smiled and left his office without another word. She returned to her desk and immediately began to gather her things to go home. Looking at her phone, she decided to ignore the text from Anderson.

Though it would have been quicker for Greg to use public transport, or call a cab, he rather enjoyed the half an hour walk to and from Scotland Yard. It gave him time to collect his thoughts and was often his only chance to do even mild exercise. He pulled his large coat around him and left work in a good mood.

He was welcomed home by the fantastic smell of lasagne wafting through the house. He found John bustling around the kitchen, humming to himself as he set the table. “Evening Greg! How was your day?”

“Well thanks to you it was bloody busy. But productive I suppose so I shouldn’t complain.” John looked at Greg and simply raised one eyebrow in a question. Greg laughed. “We’ve applied for the warrant, but it should go through with no problems.”

“Excellent news! I hope you’re hungry by the way…”

Greg ignored his stomach’s growl of approval “Hang on a second John,” John turned around from the oven, his faced arranged into a look of pure innocence. Not falling for anything, dealing with Sherlock for several years had taught him a lot, Greg crossed his arms and glared at John. “How did you figure it out exactly?”

John smiled at him. “I didn’t, well not really. Come on, I’m starving, I’ll tell you as we eat.” They sat down and tucked in. John outlined all he had discovered, including how he’d figured out Sherlock’s password. Greg ate the delicious meal and listened to his friend. He watched John’s eyes light up as the ex-soldier provided his explanations. Greg couldn’t help but compare them to how Sherlock’s eyes had brightened whenever he’d explained his miraculous deductions. He could almost feel the energy radiating from John as he talked. Greg had debated whether or not to give the phone to John. At the time he’d somehow felt that he owed it to Sherlock. It had been very out of character for Sherlock to reveal so easily that John would’ve been able to figure the password out, and it always seemed that that man never did anything by accident. Truthfully, Greg was slightly pleased with himself for knowing to trust that Sherlock would’ve left them a clue.

“So it was Sherlock who figured it out really, I just solved his little puzzle.” John finished and resumed eating.

“It’s still bloody brilliant John!” Greg paused and stared at his half eaten plate of food, thinking hard. “The note said ‘The Rules are wrong’, correct?” John nodded at him through a mouthful of garlic bread. “Other than leading you to the leaflet, I wonder if it means anything else…”

John swallowed his food and nodded, “Oh, um… yeh I’d actually thought about that. Hang on… Where did I put it?” He got up and looked around the kitchen. When he returned he was clutching a small black writing pad. He sat down and continued his explanation, whilst flicking through the notepad, looking for a certain page. “The game of Cluedo that Sherlock lost, he lost because he tried to prove that the victim could have been the killer.”

Greg almost chocked on his lasagne. “Seriously?!”

“Yeh, I know… but that’s Sherlock for you: ‘The Rules are Wrong’. As we explained though, the rules are clear; the killer is one of the six suspects. ONE of them Greg.” John looked at Lestrade as if the answer was obvious. Still confused, Greg shook his head at John. “Greg, what if this time the rules are wrong not because the victim, Sherlock, did it, but because _more than one_ suspect did? What if it wasn’t suicide Greg? There’s a possibility it’s murder, and they all had a part to play.” John finished and pushed his notebook over to Lestrade. Turning it the right way up, he began to read the almost illegible handwriting; ‘Typical bloody doctor’:

_‘ **The Rules are Wrong**_

_ Corporal Lyons – Colonel Mustard _

  * _Military Training (stealth, strong, organisation)_
  * _Head of Security_
  * _Connection to Bob Franklin?_
  * _How did Franklin get gas without notice initially (Moriarty?)_
  * _Young – easy to manipulate, gullible?_
  * _Revenge?_



_ Kitty Riley – Mrs White, the servant. _

  * _Journalist_
  * _Word taken as ‘gospel’ – reliable sources required?_
  * _Young – in need of money/looking for her ‘break’_
  * _Is she aware that Rich Brooke was a fake (Bugger! Still need to prove that!)_



_ Mycroft Holmes – Reverend Green _

  * _Innocent Source_
  * _Tricked into providing information on victim_
  * _Government – can’t been seen to have made a mistake (remains quiet)_
  * _May be willing to help_



_ James Moriarty – Professor Plum _

  * _The guider for the operations_
  * _Distributer of information_
  * _Uses a disguise_
  * _Tests trust_



_ Irene Adler – Miss Scarlett _

  * _Dead?_
  * _Misbehaves_
  * _Very persuasive._



_ Moran – Mrs Peacock _

  * _First Name?_
  * _Who are they?'_



“…Moran?” Greg mumbled, looking up at John questioningly.

“No idea.” John said, pushing away his empty plate and stretching. “I think I’ve heard the name before though.” He buried his face in his hands.

“I’m afraid I don’t recognise it at all. However, I do think I have some news that you’ll like.” John glanced up from his hands eagerly, not missing the glint of mischief in Greg’s eyes. “I checked the system databases today; there is no record of the actor Richard Brooke anywhere on the unofficial government census, only the official one. Clearly a certain mastermind criminal isn’t aware of everything our government can do. It’s amazing how easy it is to alter official records, but simply bypass those you don’t think will important enough to be looked at properly.” Greg’s smirk practically reeked of smugness. “Is that enough proof for you?”

John stared at his friend, absolutely gobsmacked. “Fantastic!”


	9. The Campsite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John enjoys his last evening at Greg's. That is until he tries to figure out who 'Moran' is.

Greg insisted on doing the washing up since John had done the cooking, and John knew better than to argue with the DI. Instead he covered up the left over lasagne with some cling film and put it in the fridge, there was enough left over for another portion. Then John went into the living room and presented Greg with the expensive Scottish Whiskey he’d purchased earlier that afternoon. It seemed the least he could do as a thank you after all the trouble the young detective had gone to in letting John stay with him for several weeks. Greg was delighted with the gift, John knew that it was his favourite, and fetched two tumblers from the cupboard, pouring them each a glass. He had not looked surprised when John revealed that he planned to move back into Baker Street the next day, he’d simply smiled and nodded in understanding.

They spent the rest of the evening sat in the living room in two comfortable armchairs drinking the whiskey and talking. Greg had put the TV on but it was quickly muted and neither man paid any attention to the flickering images. They chatted about trivial, non-important things until the early hours of the morning when Greg, half a bottle of whiskey worse for wear, bid John a good night and stumbled up the stairs. John stared at the sofa before deciding to just lay down fully clothed. The whiskey, not to mention the late hour, had made him sluggish and drowsy, he therefore had no intention of pulling out the sofa bed and changing into pyjamas, so he grabbed his coat and draped it over his tired body in a make-shift blanket. He felt utterly content; the case was progressing well, he was returning home properly the next day, and he’d just spent the first evening in months relaxing and simply enjoying a friend’s company. He closed his eyes and began to drift into a welcoming sleep.

_“AHEM!”_ John’s senses awoke from their almost-slumber, but in a silent protest he refused to open his eyes. _“Johhhhn.”_ It was almost comical that the Army Doctor thought he could trick him.

‘What do you want now Sherlock?’

_“How can you just be lying there SLEEPING?”_

‘Well I’m not actually sleeping thanks to…’

_“You know what I mean John! There are still things to figure out.”_

‘Such as?’

_“Moran, for starters.”_

John’s lip twitched in frustration, ‘I was afraid you’d say that.’

_“Who is he?”_

‘I don’t know. You’re the one who bloody wrote it in that leaflet. I guess I ought to be thanking you for that, but I don’t suppose it would have hurt to provide them with a first name. I am assuming that ‘Moran’ is their surname of course?’

_“Of course it’s his surname. Who has a first name ‘Moran’ for crying out loud?”_

‘Coming from a guy who’s Mother decided to name him ‘Sherlock’ and his brother ‘Mycroft’; the two most common names in the whole wide world!’

_“STOP getting distracted John. It’s his surname. And don’t you think if I’d known his first name I’d have given it to you.”_

‘I wonder why I recognise it though.’

_“You never mentioned his name to me.”_

‘Hang on… why are you referring to ‘him’? It could be a woman, like Irene Adler, couldn’t it?’

_“He could be, but he isn’t. You clearly know something John.”_

‘Clearly.’ John opened his eyes. The TV was still flashing images into the dark room. John found the remote and switched it off. He returned to the sofa, and ended up banging his leg on the coffee table due to the absence of light. He swore loudly, rubbing his shin as he lay back down on the sofa. He found himself once more staring up at the ceiling, tired, but now unable to sleep as his brain kicked itself into gear. With a reluctant sigh, and a silent curse of Sherlock Holmes, he closed his eyes and called upon his Mind Field.

Away from the main battlefield there was a campsite. He’d formed it whist making the notes he’d shown Greg earlier during dinner, and was using it as a base for everything linked to the Sherlock case. In the first tent was everything he’d collected relating to Bluebell the rabbit and the Baskerville case that he no longer required. The opening to the tent had been zipped up, and John imagined the soldiers inside were relaxing; smoking cigarettes and sharing stories of their recent successful mission. The one opposite contained a troop of soldiers who were recuperating after a battle. They were all linked to Corporal Lyons and the Hansel and Gretel case, and the tent radiated a low hum of energy. The troops all eagerly waiting in anticipation for the next burst of action.

Further along were two tents positioned incredibly close to each other. The soldiers linked to James Moriarty and Irene Adler were very familiar with one another and passed freely between the two tents. They happened to share many traits and qualities, including the question of whether they were alive or not. These soldiers held an air of mystery that unnerved John, they talked in hushed whispers, slipped notes into one another’s hands, smiled at someone, then suddenly glared at them when their back was turned. They could not relax, they all twitched with suspicion and distrust at each other.

Opposite these two sat the two small tents linked to Mycroft and Kitty Riley. Mycroft’s tent was small, and neat. The structure looked capable of withstanding gale force winds and not a speck of mud could be found on the canopy. The soldiers inside were quiet and composed, waiting patiently in complete silence. The tent, though situated almost in the centre of the camp, seemed to shrink away from the other activity around it. No one exited or entered the tent, and the scowl on the occupants’ faces would be enough to deter anyone who thought of changing that. The tent associated with Riley was bursting with nervous energy. The soldiers inside were pacing and fidgeting in frustration, they appeared restless and unsure about what they should be doing.

John ignored all these tents for now and focused his mind on the tent he had assigned to Moran. It was right at the end of the campsite and was currently a small two-man green tent that John could have assembled alone in five minutes. No sounds could be heard from the tent, but John noticed a swirling grey mist escaping from the small gaps in the covering. He tried to look past the entrance but was welcomed by the fog, which though it appeared to be rather thin, completely clouded his view of anything that could have been inside. He felt a presence though within the tent. So something or someone was in there, but it was blocked from him. He wasn’t allowed access to it.

From the physical world John began to feel a dull pain in his leg. ‘Blasted coffee table.’ He thought to himself. He emerged from the field, massaging his painful right leg. He was completely dumbfounded as to why his own mind was blocking something from him. Maybe the whiskey had had an affect on his Mind Field, though all the other aspects had been just as clear as they ever were. Something wasn’t _right_ about it all. He knew something, but he didn’t know what, and it seemed his own mind was hiding him from the knowledge. John suddenly realised something and stopped rubbing his leg in shock.

He’d banged the left one on the coffee table, not the right.


	10. It Helps Me Think

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John moves back into Baker Street properly, and thinks about how he's going to solve the riddle of his psychosomatic limp.

The pain in his right leg quickly vanished at the realisation. John fought the instinct to panic and concentrated on taking long, deep breaths. His mind was racing and he felt frightened at his own confusion. His slightly drunk state didn’t help and he had to battle his wild imagination and regain control of his thoughts. When John finally calmed down he quickly succumbed to the sleep his body had been craving all night.

He slept lightly. Greg stumbling down the stairs at seven o’clock therefore woke him, and his hangover. Trying to go back to sleep would have been impossible, therefore John dragged his aching body into the kitchen to share his last breakfast with Greg. As well as a headache, John felt slightly nauseous and his mouth was filled with a bitter taste. Greg had taken the liberty of pouring them both a large glass of water and setting out some paracetamol in addition to their regular coffees. Breakfast was eaten in a polite silence, though both John and Greg caught each other smirking at the other’s appearance. Greg’s movements were stiff, his silver hair was in a complete state, and his eyes were underlined with dark shadows. John suspected he looked little, if any, better, and his neck was particularly sore as a result of not pulling out the sofa bed. He’d also found a nice bruise forming on his left shin from the coffee table, which Greg struggled not to laugh at.

Greg ran a hand through his dishevelled hair and went upstairs for a shower before he left for work. John felt a bit better as the painkillers started kicking in and began to collect and pack up his things into a small suitcase. After about half an hour Greg emerged looking as fresh as a daisy, and almost cheerful. He wished John a good day as he picked up his briefcase and began heading for the door.

“See you Greg! I hope everything goes smoothly today.”

Greg raised his eyebrows in amusement; “Yeah right!” he sighed, “Give my best to Mrs. Hudson.”

John smiled sadly, “Will do.” Greg nodded, and gave a brief smile that, for once, failed to reach his eyes.

As the front door shut an eldritch silence fell upon the small house. Over the last month or so, John had found himself alone here many times and it had never bothered him before. He suddenly felt very uncomfortable, and simply _aware_ that he was by himself, and in someone else’s home. He had a quick shower and got dressed in a slight rush. It wasn’t that he felt like an intruder, and it wasn’t a deep emotion displaying some sort of reluctance at the thought of him leaving. It was simply a vague acceptance that the place had served its purpose for John. He was, and would always be, grateful to Greg for giving him the refuge he had so desperately needed here. He no longer needed it though. Now he needed to go back to what was his own weird form of normal. He smiled to himself, grasped his suitcase, and left Greg’s town house without any further consideration. He began to hail a cab, and then lowered his arm with a frown. He was not in a rush, and it was turning out to be a lovely day. He decided to walk.

John arrived at Baker Street, slightly out of breath, less than twenty-five minutes later. He heaved the surprisingly heavy suitcase up to the flat and began the tedious task of unpacking. Just as John was finishing tidying away the last little bits and bobs, right on cue, Mrs. Hudson appeared with a tray of tea and scones for the two of them. They sat down and tucked into the lovely brunch as Mrs. Hudson nattered about this, that and the other, and John listened politely, occasionally adding his own input, but also quite happy to just sit and observe his Landlady continuously rant.

Once all the juicy gossip had been delivered, all the scones had been eaten, and all the tea had been drunk John helped Mrs. Hudson wash up downstairs. When he returned he checked his phone for the first time since leaving Lestrade’s house. He had one text:

 

_“Lyons has been arrested. Questioning him personally later today. I asked if you could be present – negative. I’ll let you know if anything interesting comes up though.  
_ _Greg”_

 

John smiled at the text. Greg was breaking every rule in the book at his expense, just like he’d done so many times for Sherlock.  It was a huge risk, and showed how much trust and faith Greg truly had in John, and had had in Sherlock. No matter what Sherlock had liked to believe and say; he’d definitely had more than one close friend.

 

_“Thanks Greg. Once again I hope it goes well.  
_ _JW”_

 

John put down his phone and sat in his armchair. He had some serious thinking to do. What happened to him last night had unnerved him, and he was wary of returning too suddenly to his Mind Field, particularly as he doubted he would have any more luck in finding out about Moran there. He therefore considered what he knew so far. Moran was a last name that he recognised sub-consciously, and he knew somehow that they were male. When he’d tried to find his memories and knowledge of this person his own mind had prevented him from accessing the information. He’d also felt his psychosomatic pain return briefly. He awoke from his trance to find himself staring at the skull, elbows on his knees and hands placed together under his chin.

_“Nice to see you thinking John.”_

‘If you’re not going to be helpful please shut up.’

_“Ah! Beginning to value silence too I see, pity you couldn’t appreci…”_

_‘_ Sherlock.’

_“Fine! Try another tool of mine. How about the skull or the violin maybe? I think it’s very strange that the pain in your leg returned, you need to find out why. It’s quite peculiar.”_

John sighed ‘Actually it’s not. I think I know why my pain returned, and how it might be linked to Moran.’

_“What do you mean?”_

‘I never told you about being shot in Afghanistan did I?’

_“Well, I tried to bring it up on several occasions, but you always changed the subject. I assumed you were still traumatized by the experience.”_

‘Not exactly; I… I don’t actually remember it.’

_“You don’t remember being shot?”_

‘According to my doctor and my Therapist it is due to PTSD. I woke up to find myself in hospital and in pain. Of course they’d done surgery on my shoulder, my ‘real’ wound, which therefore was sore, but not agonisingly so. I don’t know why but I didn’t remember what had happened, and I could feel a throbbing in my right leg. At first it was general, but I overheard them talking about a bullet wound and that’s suddenly what it had felt like; a sharp, localised burst of pain just below my knee. I was informed that no such injury had befallen my leg, but the pain wouldn’t subside, and therefore I was diagnosed with the psychosomatic limp, even though I’d always tried to convince myself it was real.’

_“Why didn’t you tell me John?”_

‘Why do you think Sherlock?’

_“Shame.”_

‘Shame.’ John nodded in confirmation. ‘I thought it made me weak; to have an injury that wasn’t really there, but also to have an injury that I couldn’t even share the story of how I got it. All I know is I was recovered from a building that was attacked whilst my unit and one other were searching it. I used to think I could almost sense the memory in the corner of my mind, and I’d try to grasp at it, but I could never recover it. Like trying to catch smoke, or see through fog. It wasn’t blackness, or nothingness. It was there, it was being obscured, blocked; it was being hidden from me. I’ve experienced physical torture before Sherlock; I can deal with pain like that. Something else made me hide that memory from myself, and I fear that it was something that plagues all doctors.’ John sighed quietly. ‘Guilt.’

_”How can you feel guilty about being shot? That’s ridiculous.”_

‘Perhaps Moran has the answer?’

_“You think it’s the same memory that’s being blocked.”_

‘You’d think that too though wouldn’t you, Mr. Coincidence?’

_“Yes, but it still doesn’t reveal who he is.”_

‘No… But given that the memory is associated with the war I can guess he was linked to me through the military.’

_“I suppose so. You need a trigger… A word or a phrase that’ll unlock the memory.”_

‘You’re right. Shit, yet another puzzle! Look, if it’s something like the ‘Bluebell’ thing again…”

_“Much worse. A) You have no real clues as to what the trigger will be linked to, other than Afghanistan. B) You don’t know whether it’ll be a word, a phrase, or an image etcetera. C) It might need to be seen, heard, thought or even felt. There are so many variables to consider John. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help to you, Good Luck.”_

‘Cheers mate.’

John hadn’t moved a muscle, and found himself having a staring match with the skull, his mind completely blank. After he lost the contest he began looking around the flat for inspiration. His eyes fell on the violin and bow, which he’d placed on the chair the day before. He tentatively picked up the beautiful instrument and gently brushed his thumb across each string; “G D A E”, they were slightly out of tune given several weeks of neglect, but the strings hummed with life beneath John’s hands. He remembered how often Sherlock used to play when he needed to think; his mood was always reflected in the tunes he chose, and furthermore was transmitted into the entire flat. It was amazing the power good music could have on those who listened as well as played. John wished he’d learnt properly when he had been a child, but he’d been stubborn and had refused to continue playing clarinet after primary school; claiming it was a ‘girly’ thing to do. Harry was a fantastic pianist and his mother played the cello beautifuly. He’d always listened to them play, and secretly wished he’d had such a talent. He now wished that Sherlock could be there to play for him; if playing could help Sherlock think, then maybe listening could help channel John’s thoughts.

John went up to his room and dug out his rather small CD collection. ‘Better than nothing,’ he thought to himself. He found the Les Misérables soundtrack and smiled as his mind travelled back to the evening he’d spent with Harry and Di. He trotted downstairs and put the CD into the player and turned it on. He sank down into his armchair and closed his eyes, focusing on the music and the lyrics.

He’d become completely immersed in listening to the music, and found himself being jolted back into reality by his text alert in the middle of ‘Who am I?’ He got up and fetched his phone whilst still listening to the music.

**“Who am I?**  
 **Can I conceal myself forever more?  
** **Pretend I’m not the man I was before?”**

The text was from Lestrade.

  **“And must my name until I die,”**

It contained one word; it was a name.

**“Be no more than an alibi?”**

 

_“Sebastian.”_

 

The fog lifted.


	11. Sebastian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John remembers what happened in Afghanistan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was one of my Favourite Chapters to write, and I hope you enjoy it.

At first all John remembered was noise. He remembered gunfire, explosions and a chorus of panicked cries. The mist that had clouded the memory slowly cleared, only to be replaced by dust. The attack hadn’t been expected, and they’d been caught off guard. Heavy fighting had taken place around the area a week before and they were searching abandoned and destroyed public buildings for injured civilians and general information.

The building they were in was completely empty. When the gunfire started they had been spread out throughout the abandoned structure. John, as the most senior member and medical officer of the unit, concentrated on gathering the men and directing them to safety through the clouds of dust. As he and the other soldiers ran towards the exit the roof began to collapse. Chunks of rubble began to fall around them and they continued running hunched over, protecting their heads with their arms.

A sharp cry pierced the chaos that engulfed John. He glanced behind him and saw shadows of men still contained within the veil of dust and rubble. He barked the order for his men to continue, and turned back. Two soldiers were on the ground; one was clutching a very clearly broken arm and was hunched over the other, who lay motionless on the ground. His legs were hidden under a pile of rubble.

When John reached them he immediately dropped to his knees. The soldier with the injured arm was shaking the other. He showed no response. John did not recognise either man, they must been part of the second unit.

“Help Me!” John shouted as he began to remove the rocks and bricks surrounding the man’s limbs. The soldier tore his gaze away from the still man, and noticed John for the first time. His blackened face had an ugly cut on the cheek and his eyes were red and beginning to fill with tears. He shook himself out of his shock and helped John as best as he could with his uninjured arm.

 

“He’s still breathing. We got caught when the roof collapsed… rock hit my arm… he didn’t protect his head in time.” John nodded in understanding but said nothing; the dust was drying out his mouth and causing his eyes to sting. They managed to clear most of the rubble within a minute, but John was disheartened to find that a much larger rock had completely crushed the man’s lower right leg. The other soldier looked ready to throw up.

“Go. Get help. Now.” He was met with wide eyes, but the man nodded and quickly scrambled away towards the back of the building. The dust was thick now and John found it difficult to breath. Adrenaline coursed through his muscles as he positioned himself to lift and roll the rock away from the soldier’s leg. It revealed broken flesh, bone and a lot of blood. John did not pause and began the process of binding the man’s leg, restricting blood loss. It would have to be amputated; there was no way it could be fixed. John almost missed the sound of the man’s breath quickening and hitching as he slowly emerged from his concussion into a painful consciousness. The man tried to speak, he was so quiet, and John was amazed he could hear him over the fighting.

The eyes slowly opened and fixed themselves upon John. He saw terror grip the man’s features. John abandoned his work on the leg and focused on calming the petrified soul.

“Shhhhh. I’m a doctor. You need to stay still, we’re getting help to you.” John had never been one to patronise patients, and was relieved to see that his commanding tone made the soldier relax a little instead of tense up. He returned to the wound. “What’s your name?”

“Sebastian, I mean Moran sir, Lieutenant Moran.” John nodded, he’d almost finished.

“Yours sir?”

“Watson, Captain John Watson.”

“Thank you Captain.”

John looked into the young eyes. He saw hope. His heart broke when he realised that this man’s dreams were about to be destroyed. He set his jaw into a look of determination and tried to cover up his emotions. “I need to get you away from here. It will hurt, but I’m going to have to lift you.” Without waiting for any form of acceptance or approval John stood and swiftly swung Moran over his shoulder. The man cried out in pain, but John ignored it and hurried towards the exit.

As he emerged from the building the sun blinded him and he could not see where he was going. The trucks had to be close by.

“Watson! Take cover!”

Gunfire. Pain. Blackness.

 

* * *

 

John was trembling. Tears were in his eyes. He dropped the phone on the table in disbelief and staggered backwards. His knees hit the chair and he fell clumsily onto the floor. On his knees, bent forwards with his hands tearing at his sandy hair. He was faintly aware that the music was still playing in the background.

“Shut up.” He whispered under his breath. The music seemed to only get louder. “SHUT UP!” He yelled. He was suddenly on his feet and launching himself across the room. He grasped the stereo and, in a blind rage, threw it against the wall. He collapsed once more onto his knees, his head hung down over his chest.

_“John?”_

‘I couldn’t save him. Just like I couldn’t save you. I can’t save you Sherlock. It’s too late.’

_“I’m here John.”_

“NO YOU’RE NOT!” John actually shouted the words towards the empty flat. ‘I am too late for you, and I was too late for Moran.’

“John…”

‘Please, just leave me alone for a while.’

“I’ll always be here for you John. You were always there for me.”

“Please?” he whispered.

John, consumed with guilt and self-hatred, lay on his living room floor. He listened to the silence. He had never felt more alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the state I've left John in...


	12. It's too Late

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inwhich John is a Bamf, and Mycroft is a dick.

John brought his knees up to his chest, buried his face into the fabric of his jeans and just let the tears fall. His mind was a jumble of unleashed emotions and he hardly knew what he was crying about anymore as they all rushed to escape out of the hole the lost memory had created. John sat still and, for once, allowed them to consume him. As he breathed in and out he engulfed the smell of salt, tea, fabric softener and his aftershave, his own smell. It calmed him and he slowly began to regain control of his emotions and his body stopped shaking.

When the tears stopped John remained where he was, just breathing in and out, keeping his mind completely blank. He finally removed himself from the floor and stood up. His legs wobbled slightly beneath him and he felt very light-headed. He regained his balance and mentally examined himself as he stood in the middle of 221B. He felt… good. He sensed a general decrease of tension in his muscles, his head felt clearer and his thoughts were crisper, as though they were no longer being restrained before they could surface. John chuckled, closed his eyes and sighed. ‘I obviously needed that.’

_“Obviously.”_

‘You’re still with me?’ Despite himself John felt a burst of warm affection spreading through him. ‘Stop it John! He’s not real, remember?’

_“John, of course I’m real, and of course I’m still with you. As if I’d leave you just when things are starting to get interesting and fun! It’s as if you don’t know me at all.”_

John actually laughed at that. ‘So you’re only still here for the case? It’s nothing to do with providing emotional support for your one and only friend who’s just had a bit of a psychological breakdown?’

_“Well… um… I suppose I could do that to… I, um, there there?”_

‘Forget it Sherlock. It doesn’t matter – sympathy was never one of your finer qualities.’

_“No! Wait I can do this John! I can. John… how’re you feeling?”_

John nodded his approval, ‘Better, I suppose.’ John navigated himself to his chair and sat down with a deep sigh. ‘And honestly Sherlock, I’m… confused.’

_“You’ve figured out who he is, but it still doesn’t explain how he’s linked to the case.”_

“Exactly.” John breathed.

The doorbell rang, and there was a text alert. John stood and reached for his phone on the table. The screen was blank. His confusion only lasted for a second before he fumbled around in his jacket pocket to retrieve Sherlock’s IPhone.

_“I’d get your gun if I were you. Before you answer the door.”_

Before he could react to the absurdity of the text his eyes flashed to the name and terror seized his body: “ _James Moriarty_ ”. After a few seconds of staring at the screen in disbelief, the doorbell rang again, jolting John out of his shock. Without thinking he ran up the stairs and charged into his room. He made a beeline for his desk and removed the handgun from the draw. As he went downstairs he could hear the front door opening and muffled voices.

“John, it’s Mycroft! I’m sending him up.” Mycroft? John took out Sherlock’s phone and re-read the text on the screen, as he did so another popped up.

_“Keep it hidden.”_

John battled his confusion and quickly shoved his gun into the back of his trousers and put on his jacket to ensure it was completely covered. Seconds later, and without knocking, Mycroft entered the room.

“Dr. Watson.” Mycroft greeted John with his familiar scowl of disdain. His eyes scanned John methodically, and John felt anger rise in his chest. How DARE he examine John as though he was some sort of lab rat? The man who was practically _responsible_ for Sherlock’s death? The cold-hearted intellectual who had so easily betrayed his own brother, his own family? Who hadn’t even shown a whisper of remorse or regret at the funeral? Who hadn’t spoken to John since he’d challenged him at the Club?

John decided to skip the pleasantries. “What the fuck do you want Mycroft?” Mycroft didn’t seem shocked at John’s outburst, and proceeded to enter the flat and sit down in Sherlock’s chair as though it was his own home.

“I came to see how you are.” He smiled, though Mycroft’s smile should never really be called as such, it was always more of a smirk, or very patently forced. John wondered why he bothered to do it, as he fooled nobody. “And some tea would be nice too.”

“Since when was I your housekeeper?”

“I’ll take that as a no on the tea. Why don’t you sit down?”

“Why don’t you answer my question?”

“I already told you.”

“Well I’m fine.”

“I had no idea crying on the floor of your own apartment constituted as ‘fine’.”

John’s lip twitched in frustration. Of course he’d figured that out. “I had no idea it was any of your business.” He spat out the last word.

“I can make anything I want my business John.” John stared at Mycroft with venomous eyes. Mycroft sneered triumphantly. John felt his right hand twitch towards the back of his jeans, but he clenched his fist and used all his willpower to keep his arm by his side. They remained silent for several minutes as the tension built around them. “I see you decided it was time to move back in.”

“Obviously.” John snarled. Mycroft’s face remained blank, but John could see the hidden twitches that indicated the man was beginning to get frustrated. ‘Good,’ he thought, ‘…heartless prick.’

“You’re wasting your time John.”

“Sorry…”

“You can’t prove Sherlock’s innocent.”

John’s jaw hardened. “Oh? And why’s that?”

“Because, this is _Moriarty_ John. And you, I’m afraid to say, are no Sherlock Holmes.”

“You think Sherlock was the only person who could have beaten him.”

“He didn’t.”

“Then I will. Your brother was innocent. I’m not going to give up on him.”

“It’s to late. Moriarty will beat you.” John stared at Mycroft. Suddenly every ounce of respect he’d ever had for the man fled his body.

“You coward. How can you give up on your brother so easily when it was YOU who gave Moriarty the information he needed? How DARE you come here and tell me it’s too late. Sherlock is dead because of you. And for the record, I’m not a normal person. I am NOT an idiot. I will figure this out, with or without your help Mycroft Holmes.”

“John…”

“I think you should leave.”

“Why?”

“Because this is my home, and you are not welcome. I wish you luck on your search for tea, and I thank you for your _concern_ for my wellbeing.”

Mycroft stood and towered over John. He thought he was being intimidating but John met his eyes with a cold fury of his own. “Good day Doctor Watson.”

“Goodbye Mycroft.” Mycroft stalked out of the flat with a look of pure anger etched over his face. John slammed the door behind him and smiled. ‘That felt amazing.’

_“That was foolish John.”_

‘Oh shut up Sherlock! He deserved it and you know that.’

_“I didn’t say he didn’t deserve it, but you know he has issues with power complexes.”_

‘Doesn’t hurt for him to loose once in a while.’

_“Once in a while? John he had me as a sibling growing up. I assure you he’s used to it.”_ John couldn’t help but laugh.

John composed himself, made a cup of tea and sat down on his chair. He felt a slight bump in his back as he did so. The gun. He carefully removed it and examined it in his hands. He took Sherlock’s phone from his pocket and unlocked the screen. Taking a deep breath of courage he tapped the ‘Messages’ icon and was immediately taken to the message history between him and ‘James Moriarty.’

The entire history lasted little more than a page. The first one John recognised immediately as the one he’d received on the day of Moriarty’s arrest: _“Come and play. Tower Hill. Jim Moriarty x.”_ The next was six weeks later, and was again from Moriarty: _“11am Angelo’s.”_ John looked again at the date; it was the same as Moriarty’s conviction in court. They had been in session from 9 until 12, and the text had been sent just after 10am. There was no way Moriarty could have sent a text then. ‘Obviously not Moriarty then.’ John pushed the thought aside and continued reading the texts. There was just two more:

_“Come and play. Bart’s Hospital rooftop.  
_ _SH_

_P.S. Got something of yours you might want back.”_

_“I’m Waiting…  
_ _JM”_

John stared at the phone. Sherlock had _arranged_ to meet Moriarty on the roof. Moriarty had _been_ on the roof with him. How had he persuaded Sherlock to jump? And where had he gone afterwards? It had been several hours before anyone had managed to think to go onto the roof to look for evidence. All they had found was the phone. Another text interrupted John’s thought process.

_“6pm. Bart’s Lab.”_

John glanced at the clock, it was almost half five.

Time for some answers.


	13. The Hospital

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John goes back to St Barts for the first time since Sherlock's fall. He finds a familiar face.

Just as he was about to leave John received another text:

_“The gun won’t be necessary.”_

John paused before he considered writing an answer; he typed one and hesitated again over pressing the ‘send’ button. It would be the first time he’d actually acknowledged any of the texts. ‘For crying out loud, I’m planning in going to a meeting place _they_ have suggested, that’s confirmation enough!’ He pressed the send button and left the flat. His gun was still in his jeans.

_“Why should I trust you?”_

The phone beeped again as he clambered into a taxi.

_“You’ll see.”_

The taxi ride seemed to take hours. It wasn’t helped of course by the London rush-hour traffic. John didn’t reply to the text, but he was clutching Sherlock’s phone in his right hand and tapping his fingers on it nervously as he stared out of the window. He didn’t know what to expect at Bart’s, whoever was texting him was clearly watching him closely, he would have suspected Mycroft in any other situation. He guessed however, that Mycroft wouldn’t be encouraging John to be in a possession of a gun while he was present. John knew he would have deduced just as easily as Sherlock that John had had his gun on him, and he didn’t think the pompous twat was overjoyed with the knowledge. John was confused, and had a list of questions that kept on increasing in length. He was eager for some answers. He wasn’t frightened though, he was almost certain the texter wasn’t Moriarty, and he was strangely comforted by the fact that if this person had wanted to harm him they probably would have been able to without alerting him to their existence.

The taxi finally pulled up to the pavement outside the hospital. John hopped out and paid the driver, patiently waiting for his change. The black car pulled away and John looked up at the building. He froze on the spot. The last time he had been stood here he had been watching the dark figure of Sherlock on the roof. He had been listening to his closest friend tell him that he was a fake, and he had witnessed Sherlock Holmes rid himself of all hope. John couldn’t move, he just stared up at the roof. It was clear today of course, but the gloomy shadows of his memory threatened to invade his rational mind. He didn’t feel sadness or grief as he remembered what had happened. After Sherlock’s death he’d felt like a deflated ball; suddenly small, empty and completely useless, and the same sensation began to seep over him again now. This time though, John was able to fight back. He knew he wasn’t useless, he’d proven that to both himself and to Lestrade, and he was going to prove it to people like Mycroft too. He was going to establish Sherlock’s innocence. With a new found confidence and determination John tore his eyes away from the roof, crossed the road and entered the building via the staff entrance.

John easily navigated the maze of corridors. He’d been here so many times before with Sherlock and occasionally Stamford. He was certain they had always been breaking several rules by using the staff entrance and various facilities without official authorization, but no one had ever batted an eyelid at them and John didn’t encounter any obstacles now as he hurried to the lab. When he reached the door he paused briefly and removed his gun from the back of his jeans and held his arm by his side. He slowly opened the door.

He walked in to find Molly Hooper huddled over a microscope in her white lab coat and blue gloves. A quick scan of the room revealed that she was working alone. John quickly re-hid his gun before Molly noticed him; he had no wish to alarm her. As the door clicked closed behind him Molly looked up from her experiment. She smiled warmly, but did not look surprised to see him. “Hi John.”

John slowly walked towards her, studying her quietly. Molly had lost weight, at least half a stone, she looked like she hadn’t slept in weeks, her hair was in an untidy ponytail and she wasn’t wearing any makeup. John was most disheartened though when he looked into her beautiful brown eyes, and found no sparkle. Molly had always shown an unusual eagerness to do well at her job, and that interest was now lost. John didn’t need to think too hard about why that could be. “Molly.” John didn’t know what else to say, and decided to pull her into a tight hug.

At first Molly tensed her small frame against the unexpected contact, but after a few seconds she relaxed and buried her face into Johns jumper as she wrapped her arms around him. They stayed like that for several minutes in a comfortable silence before John broke it, still clutching her in an embrace. “How are you Molly?”

She lifted her head and found John’s eyes; they were full of concern and guilt. She gave a sad smile. “I’m alright John. Please don’t worry about me. I miss him John, I know you miss him too, but he was just a crush for me… I know, I mean… for you… I’ll be ok, I just need a bit of time.” John didn’t believe her, and she didn’t believe herself. “You, on the other hand,” Molly broke away from the hug with a small smirk playing at her lips, “are late.” She nodded towards the clock, clearly amused at John’s suddenly confused expression.

“You’re the one who text Sherlock’s phone?!” John’s mind began racing as he tried to process the information. Before he could get too far though Molly grasped his arm and shook her head.

“No, I’m not the one who text his phone. I don’t know who they are either, but they’ve been texting me too. I think we can trust them though…” Molly trailed off, clearly holding something back. John just stared at her in amazement.

“Molly, this person is listed in Sherlock’s phone as Moriarty…”

“I know John. I had Jim’s number too remember? It’s not him though.”

Molly avoided John’s gaze, and they stood in an awkward silence. John was confused, he was tired and suddenly he was very hungry. His stomach growled in confirmation. He sighed and looked directly at Molly. “Molly, why am I here?”

She took a deep breath before meeting John’s steady gaze. “I think I need to tell you something.”

John nodded in agreement. “Can you tell me over dinner? I’m absolutely famished, and I haven’t been to the Italian around the corner yet.” Molly looked startled. “It’ll be my treat.”

Molly laughed as John winked at her, tension leaving her body. “Sounds like a good idea; I’m starving too.” As she began to pack away her equipment John received another text to Sherlock’s phone:

_“I told you that you wouldn’t need the gun.”_

John scowled at the phone, but didn’t reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry there was no update yesterday, I'll try to get the next bit up tonight.


	14. What Happened on THAT Day?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly and John discuss what happened the night before Sherlock died.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an important(ish) Chapter. Written from Molly's POV. I hope you enjoy.

Molly was relieved that the restaurant was relatively quiet when they arrived. It was still quite early in the evening and on a weekday. She was also secretly pleased that John had suggested a restaurant that wasn’t too formal. Her work clothes were relatively smart, but they weren’t flattering and she had recently stopped making an effort with her hair and make-up. Maybe that’s why John had chosen it, perhaps he was embarrassed by her dishevelled appearance. But she took a moment to consider John’s own attire; his jeans were old and faded, they had clearly been used for several days, and his jumper was worn for its comfort, not its style. The choice was probably better for both of them.

The room hummed with a low murmur of voices. They would be able to talk freely without having to raise their own voices too much, and they wouldn’t feel as exposed as they would have done in the eerie silence of the lab. They were seated almost immediately in a small booth towards the back of the restaurant and didn’t speak as they scanned their menus. A young male waiter arrived to take their drinks order. Molly, suddenly remembering that John had said he would be paying, asked for a diet coke in a small voice. John ordered an ordinary coke, and also insisted on a bottle of Rosé wine for them to share. They resumed looking at the menus in silence. The waiter returned a short time later with the cokes and the bottle of wine. John tested the drink and smacked his lips in satisfaction. “It’s lovely, thank you.” After pouring them each a glass, the waiter took down their food orders, retrieved their menus and left them.

Molly suddenly became very nervous, she knew she’d have to confront John at some point, but it still didn’t make it any easier and she had no idea where to begin. In an effort to calm herself, she took a sip of the wine. It was cold and the sweet flavour danced on her tongue for several seconds. John’s choice had been excellent, and she caught him smiling at her as she sipped the wine again. “It’s excellent wine John.”

“It’s Austrian; my personal favourite. I’m pleased you like it, I’m quite partial to good wine and I could never get Sherlock interest…” he trailed off and gave a slight cough as he shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. He had a large sip of the wine and sank back into his chair.

Neither of them said anything for several minutes and Molly found herself staring at the pink liquid in her wine glass. She didn’t know now how to broach the subject of Sherlock, it was after all why they were there, but every time she opened her mouth to speak words hid themselves from her and she was forced to shrink back into her own little world of quiet thoughts.

Finally it was John who spoke. “Thank you for returning Sherlock’s book.” John’s voice was forced yet calm. Molly looked up from her glass to find him staring at his own with a fierce intensity. This was going to be difficult for both of them it seemed. Molly had almost forgotten about the Treasure Island book.

“Oh! Um, you’re welcome, I thought he would have wanted me to…” Molly stopped as John looked up and met her eyes. He knew she was lying and his eyes glistened with a mixture of sadness and slight amusement at her words. She sighed and paused briefly before leaning forward eagerly and lowering her voice. “Ok… did it, errr, did it help?”

John smiled and then laughed slightly. “So you _didn’t_ borrow it then?” he asked, tilting his head and raising his eyebrows dramatically.

Molly suddenly burst into a fit of nervous laughter, “Oh, come on, you knew that anyway. I mean, well… didn’t you?”

“I sort of assumed as much: A) Sherlock never lends his things to ANYONE, and B)” John paused and looked at Molly earnestly, “It _was_ helpful, very helpful in fact. Thank you.”

Molly sighed in relief. “Good. You have no idea how much I had been worrying about that. I came around and Mrs. Hudson was there, clearing away Sherlock’s old equipment I think, and I tried to leave so that I could bring it around to Greg’s when she told me where you were, but she insisted that I could leave it there. I didn’t look inside it by the way. He just sort of gave it to me and told me that it was important that you got it, and I didn’t know when you would go back. I was afraid I had failed him, it was the one thing he asked me to do.” Molly never broke John’s eye contact as she spoke, and his expression had slowly transformed from sad acceptance to utter confusion.

“Well, I found it actually just when I needed it, not a minute too early or late. So don’t worry about that but, please, _when_ did he give it to you? And what did he say?”

“It was _that_ day.” This was it. “John… he _knew_.”

John’s eyes widened and his breathing became deeper. “He knew what?”

Molly’s voice suddenly became impossibly small “He _knew_ he was going to die.”

John shook his head not wanting to believe it. “How?!”

“I don’t know. He came into the lab and told me that he suspected Moriarty was going to somehow force him to kill himself, to confirm him as a fake. John, I’ve never seen Sherlock like that, he was scared, and he was desperate. I told him I would do whatever I could, and that you would too. He kept on muttering about a ‘code’ or something; he was trying to figure it out. Then he did something remarkable: he looked at me, and then he apologised, no explanation, just an apology. He then gave me the book and told me that if he was going to be proven innocent, you would need it. I didn’t understand of course, it was all riddles, but it was Sherlock, he was back to his normal confusing self in an instant. He also told me about our mysterious texter, he said that we could trust them, and might even need them. He asked me to go home with a promise that I would get the book to you, and that I would be there for you when you needed me. He was running about the lab, I thought he might have solved it, that he might have been onto something, and that it was just words, that we’d be laughing about it the next day.” She smiled widely before sobering again. “I guess I was wrong. I left him in the lab and that was the last time I saw him.” Tears stung her eyes, but she continued. “The next day I asked to do the post-mortem, but Stamford and the others wouldn’t let me, we have a sort of unspoken rule about friends and family. I couldn’t believe he was gone, part of me still refuses to believe it now.”

When she finished the tears fell silently. John didn’t say anything but leant forward and put a comforting hand on her arm. She grabbed a napkin and wiped away the last of her tears, forcing herself to meet John’s concerned eyes.

“Molly, I believe Sherlock did all he could, if he died he died to protect us. I suspect he had no other option. You’ve already done far more than you know to help both him and me, but will you help me prove to the world he was the man we know him to have been?”

Molly smiled at John’s look of determination, and a new confidence seeped through her bones. “Of course John. You know I’d do anything to prove that.” John’s smile of joy said more than anything else could have done, and Molly could feel her heart almost break at the sight. John needed her.

Their food arrived and they ate in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: Molly is NOT lying. I've tried to keep this story as inline with the canon as humanly possible. Lots of people have theorised what will happen at the start of next season, but almost everyone (including me tbh) is certain that Molly helped Sherlock survive in some way. Part of me, however, is wary of Moftiss leading us into a false sense of security, so in this story she doesn't help beyond giving John the clue. That doesn't mean she wasn't, or isn't important. It was also never confirmed or denied whether the authorities recovered Jim Moriarty's body from the roof. For this it, and the blood were dispatched of... hmmmmmmmmmmm ;)


	15. Who can you Trust?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Molly finish their meal, and John gets an unexpected visiter at Baker Street.

As they waited for their desserts to arrive John told Molly everything he knew so far. She listened patiently as he explained what had happened with Sherlock’s phone, the rules of Cluedo and what he knew about the Hansel and Gretel case. All Molly could do was frown uncertainly as she processed the new information. John saw her eyes light up with interest as he explained the side effects of the H.O.U.N.D. gas. He could probably ask Lestrade to send her a sample so that she could analyse it fully for them, as far as John knew they hadn’t examined any of the samples they’d removed from Baskerville, and if anyone could find something new or important from the chemical compound, and who was still alive, it was Molly Hooper. John even told her about Sebastian Moran and his hidden memory.

“Moran? I think that sounds familiar… maybe… I don’t know.” She said shaking her head in deep thought. “Perhaps I heard it when Sherlock was muttering to himself that day in the lab. I mean, he’d have heard it somewhere too, in order to write it down for you in that leaflet.” John hadn’t stopped to think about where Sherlock might have heard or seen Moran’s name. He could only nod in agreement. “And you said it was Lestrade who sent you the text with his first name? Right after he questioned Corporal Lyons. So that would mean that Lyons probably only heard or saw the name ‘Sebastian’ from somewhere, otherwise Greg would have sent you the full name. He must have just hoped that it would be enough for you if it was the correct name.”

John felt a sudden urge to kiss Molly Hooper, right there and then in the restaurant. OF COURSE! He’d completely forgotten about Lyon’s questioning; too busy worrying about his own bloody problems. He’d text Lestrade tomorrow to see if he could get any more information. It’s a shame he wouldn’t be able to question Lyons himself; of course Greg would have asked him all the usual questions, but he may have missed the important ones.

_“Of course he’s missed the important ones John. He’s not me.”_

‘I wouldn’t ask the right ones though either, so it probably doesn’t matter.’

_“You’d get there eventually.”_

‘I’ll just have to trust Lestrade.’ John could almost hear the faint snort that was his only reply. He focused again on Molly, who had continued talking during his inner discussion with a dead man.

“… Just need a bit more current information about Moran. Scotland Yard is probably the best place to start, but if he’s linked to Ji… Moriarty he could have hidden his tracks well. Maybe Mycroft could use some of his contacts to find out more.”

“Hmmmmm…” John visibly cringed at his name.

“What’s wrong John?”

“I don’t know… I just… I don’t trust Mycroft. Not anymore”

“Why not?”

“He… um… he was the one who told Moriarty about Sherlock’s past. That newspaper article was so effective because of that information. He betrayed his brother Molly. I don’t think I could ever forgive him for that. Besides our ‘Mystery Texter’ sort of warned me about him.”

“What do y…”

“The first time they text me was when Mycroft came to visit me today. It told me… to be wary of him. He told me to give up trying to prove Sherlock was innocent. He said that I wouldn’t succeed, that I was wasting my time. I don’t think he’d be willing to help us Molly.”

Molly sat back in her seat in a shocked silence. She occasionally sipped her wine as she considered John’s words. Finally she spoke. “I don’t believe it. And neither should you, you know. Mycroft might not be the most considerate person on this planet, he’s related to Sherlock after all, but he loved his brother. If he gave up that information there had to be a reason, and the same for telling you to stop.” Molly hesitated and then leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I hate to think it, but what if he’s in danger John? Moriarty seems to have been awfully quiet since Sherlock’s death, but it doesn’t mean he isn’t still a threat. Mycroft might know something that he can’t tell you, he might be trying to protect you John. You need all the friends and support with this you can get. I’m happy to help, and I know Greg is too, but we can’t do everything. Mycroft’s always had a way of doing things behind the scenes. Don’t give up on him yet.”

Their food arrived, and they once again fell into a thoughtful silence as they ate. Molly had a point, and John knew deep down that it made sense. His head hurt from all of these new ideas and thoughts.

At the end of the meal John and Molly shared a cab, dropping Molly off first. They exchanged numbers before Molly got out, both laughing at the absurd fact that they didn’t have them before, and she insisted on giving John a tenner for the taxi. When John finally got back to Baker Street he headed straight up to his own bedroom, quickly changed into an old t-shirt and boxers and collapsed onto the bed. His own glorious, soft and brilliant bed that he hadn’t known until now he had missed so much. He only had a few minutes to appreciate this before he was sound asleep.

* * *

 

The doorbell to 221B rang mid-morning the next day. Two rings, the second slightly longer than the first; it was therefore someone he knew, but not a close friend. John had just finished breakfast and was in the middle of washing up. He quickly dried his hands and made for the stairs. He paused at the door, turned and strode towards the living room table, where Sherlock’s phone had been placed. There were no new messages. John smiled to himself.

_“No need for your gun then.”_

‘Not necessarily.’

_“Then why are you going downstairs without it?”_

‘Because, Sherlock, I can’t be suspicious of everyone who comes knocking on my bloody front door.’

_“I would be.”_

‘Of course you would be.’

John pushed aside the unreasonable urge to go back upstairs and retrieve his gun, and opened the door. He was greeted, to his surprise, by Sally Donovan.

_“The gun doesn’t seem like such a bad idea now huh?”_

John pushed away his crazy thoughts “Sally? What on earth are you doing here?” He tried to keep the anger out of his tone, but he knew he wasn’t as good of an actor as Sherlock had been.

“Greg sent me.”

“Lestrade?! But why…?”

“Please John. I’m here to help. I want to help.” John took a step back and studied Donavan quickly. She was wearing casual clothes, she had very little make-up on and her eyes were wide and pleading. It was probably her day off, and she looked like she’d been working for weeks without rest. Far too many people looked like that now. John’s instincts told him that she was telling the truth. He invited her in and proceeded to make them both a much-needed cup of tea.

“So, Greg sent you.” John said when they were both sat in the armchairs several minutes later.

“Here,” she said handing him a plastic folder, “Greg managed to photocopy his notes of the Lyons interrogation for you. I overheard it too, so you can ask me anything, if you want.” She was slightly shaking as she spoke. She was fidgeting like mad in the armchair and couldn’t keep her hands still; she was clearly nervous.

John accepted the folder gratefully, there were many questions he wanted to ask about Lyons, but first he needed to clear the air. “Thank you, and I will if you don’t mind, but first; and please don’t take this the wrong way, but why are you helping?”

Sally stopped moving and looked into John’s eyes with a steady gaze of her own. “I may not have liked Sherlock, but he didn’t deserve to die, and I’m sorry for what I’ve said about him in the past. My instincts told me that something was strange about the kidnapping. I thought it could be that Sherlock was involved, but now I’ve got the same feeling regarding his ‘suicide’. I know something’s not right, and I’m not going to ignore it. If he was innocent, the least I can do for him now is help prove that. THAT is why I’m helping. Plus it’s my job.”

John actually smiled at that. He almost asked where Anderson stood on this matter, but decided he actually didn’t want to know. “Was it difficult to get Lyons to talk?”

“Not really, he confessed straight away. He’s claiming blackmail. Two people broke into his home the day after you all came home from Dartmouth and threatened to kill members of his family if he didn’t do what they asked. It was one man and one woman apparently. They instructed him to smuggle a few vials of the gas from the hoard that was being removed from the base and wait for further instructions. Two weeks before the kidnapping he received a letter, which he was instructed to burn after reading, telling him about the kidnapping. He was provided with the van, the sweets and the TV in the back, all he had to do was knock them out with the gas, take them to the factory and leave them there. He claims not to have known about the mercury in the wrappers. He described the two people as armed and covered. He could only tell the gender from their voices and basic body shapes. He could give no description of eyes, hair colour other than a vague estimation of their heights.”

Sally watched as John processed the information, there wasn’t much to go on. “Sebastian…” he muttered, “How did he get the name ‘Sebastian’?”

“Ah! Well it seems to be their only mistake. The letter was handwritten, Lyons thinks it was a male’s handwriting but couldn’t have been certain. But the top bit of the page had been ripped off. It probably showed the full name and address of the writer, you know like those personalised notes people get. The last part of the name was ripped of, but apparently ‘Sebast’ was still there. He assumed it was Sebastian. Greg said that might have been important, was it?”

“Yes, very important. Tell Lestrade he needs to look up the Military profile of Sebastian Moran and get as much information as he can.”

“Military?”

“Yes he was a soldier. I met him briefly… He was probably invalided like me at a similar time. Draw what conclusions you want from that Sally.” Donovan knew better than to press the issue further and began jotting notes in her own black notebook. “What’s happened to Lyons now?”

“Well he’s still in police custody. He has no proof at the moment that he was actually blackmailed other than his word, our lie detectors unfortunately aren’t considered hard proof in court, especially considering he’s actually admitted to the crime. He’ll still serve a sentence probably; poor guy.” Sally finished jotting down her notes. “Anything else?”

“Oh, um yes. If it’s possible, can Lestrade send Molly Hooper a sample of the H.O.U.N.D gas at Bart’s lab? She might be able to find something in it that’s important to us, and I trust her.”

“Of course. I can’t promise anything though.”

“I know, thank you Sally.”

“You’re welcome.” Sally actually smiled as she grabbed her coat and handbag. John followed her down the stairs and let her out of the door. “Speak to you soon John.”

“You too Sal.”

***BEEP***

***BEEP***

They both reached for their phones simultaneously.

 

_“Kitty Riley found dead at her home.  
_ _Greg.”_

 

They both looked up at the same time, knowing that the other had just received the same text.

“TAXI!”

“TAXI!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear your ideas for who the texter is? :P


	16. Death of a Journalist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John, Sally and Greg investigate Kitty Riley's death. Is it, as it appears, accidental?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a dead body in this chapter, and mentions of blood. But the gory fine details have been left to your imagination.

“Scotland Yard please!” Sally said as she climbed into the cab.

“No Wait!” John ordered as he clambered in after her, “I know her address.”

Sally stared at him dumbfounded, “I don’t think that’s a very good idea John. Lestrade will be waiting for us at the Yard.”

“Trust me he won’t. This is supposed to be your day off, remember? Plus _I’m_ not supposed to be aware of anything to do with police business anymore. Going to the Yard will probably just get Lestrade into trouble. The text also specified her home; if he didn’t want us to go there he would’ve just informed us of the death and skipped the location. Sally stared at him blankly before nodding. John leant forward and gave the cabbie the new address. When he sat back in his seat he turned to find Sally still looking at him with a quizzical expression. “What?”

Sally pursed her lips before answering; “How on _earth_ do you know Kitty Riley’s address?”

John turned and stared blankly out of the taxi’s window. “Sherlock and I paid her a visit to _congratulate_ her on her article.”

“Ah,” Sally smirked, “I see.”

They didn’t speak again for several minutes until John mumbled, “She was on the list.”

“List?”

“Hmmmm,” John murmured affirmatively, “the list of Cluedo Characters.”

“Oh right! Yeah, that; Greg mentioned it to me briefly. There’s no denying that she was somehow involved in Sherlock’s death, whether she was aware of the truth or not. You think her death is going to be suspicious then?”

“Suspicious to us; my guess is that it’ll look like an accident or a suicide. Though the fact that Greg bothered to inform us and the way we both responded to the text is all the confirmation I really need that her death is ‘suspicious’. It’s why she has died that I’m bothered about. As you said, she may or may not have known information. If she was kept in the dark, she still could’ve given us information regarding the whole ‘Richard Brooke’ thing, and if she knew… well there’s so much we could’ve found out. She’s been silenced though.”

Sally didn’t respond for a while, when she did her voice was quiet and firm. “She knew something important then. And if I know journalists, which trust me; I do, she won’t have kept it to herself.” John inadvertently smiled at that. “So there is hope after all.” John didn’t reply, he just nodded, and they both returned to gazing out of the windows as they travelled through London.

Several minutes later they arrived at the ordinary looking street and exited the cab. There were a couple of squad cars and a police van parked outside. As John paid for the cab Sally strode up to the Officer stationed outside the terrace and flashed her badge. “Sergeant Donovan. Detective Inspector Lestrade sent me.”

“Yep, he’s inside. He’ll debrief you both in the living room before he shows you to the scene. I’ll warn you know it’s not pretty.”

Sally looked at him confused. “Lestrade told you I was coming?”

The police officer nodded. “Yes of course, both of you in fact.” He nodded towards John who had remained quiet behind Sally. “Dr. Watson.” He nodded a small greeting. “As I said, Lestrade will explain everything when you get inside.” John and Sally exchanged a bewildered look before John shrugged and walked into the house.

They found the Detective Inspector and the Chief Superintendent stood together in the middle of the small home’s cluttered living room. “Ah! Sally, John, I’m pleased you’re here.” Greg gestured them over.

“Sergeant Donovan right? It’s lovely to see you again,” the Chief said shaking her hand. He turned, ”ah, and, uh… you too Mr. Watson.”

John smirked as he remembered their last encounter; there was no longer any bruising, but the slight bent at the bridge meant that his glasses no longer sat properly on his nose. “It’s Doctor actually,” he said sweetly as he extended his hand, stifling a smirk as he noticed the slight flinch from the other man at the movement, “Dr. John Watson.”

“Yes well, um, welcome on board Doctor. Miss Riley’s unfortunate death would not normally have interested me or our department, but Greg requested only yesterday if it would be possible to question her, given what else is going on surrounding this case regarding Sherlock Holmes. I refused initially, but this is a bit too much of a coincidence for my liking, and Lestrade has informed me of what you’ve already done to assist us. So for this one time, and only this once, I’m going to allow you to aid our investigations.

“Thank you sir, I’ll do what I can to help.”

“Good. Lestrade, inform me of any updates as soon as they occur. Do you understand?”

“Of course sir.”

After he left the premises, John, Sally and Lestrade all looked at each other and suddenly burst out laughing.

“And I thought I’d get you into trouble!” John grinned.

“Nahhh, don’t worry. He can be an arsehole sometimes, but he’s not stupid. I knew he would come to his senses eventually.”

“Guy’s…” Sally gasped as she tried to stop giggling, “…crime scene.” They quickly sobered themselves up and listened as Greg quickly brought them up to speed on what the police currently know. 

“She was found just after 10 o’clock this morning by her close friend and colleague Sophie Denis. Ms. Denis’s statement states that the last time she spoke to Kitty was 7 o’clock yesterday evening. Yesterday was also Miss. Riley’s 28th birthday. The conversation was via text message, and she has provided us with a full transcript of each message, which I’ll show you in a moment. The gist of it was inviting her out and her declining to have a ‘relaxing night in’. The last time Ms. Denis had actually spoken to her face to face was at work that afternoon before they both went home. Apparently nothing unusual happened yesterday, other than it being Kitty’s birthday, and suspicion was only initiated when she didn’t turn up to work this morning. Ms. Denis described her as ‘hard working and punctual’ and ‘would never dream of being late or having a day off work for the snivels’, they tried to contact her via phone, email and text but received no response. Sophie volunteered to pop over in her break; the office is a five minute car drive away. She had a spare key so let herself in when no one answered; she’d seen that Kitty’s car was still parked outside. She found Kitty in the bathroom collapsed in the bathtub with the combined shower still running. She saw the blood on the back of her head and immediately rang the ambulance and police. When the ambulance arrived she was attempting CPR, but the paramedics confirmed death had occurred roughly 14 hours before hand. She was very helpful, given the circumstances, but very upset and shaken. We’ve let her go for now but have asked her to come in for an official statement and questioning later this week.” Greg handed both John and Sally a photocopied version of the handwritten ‘text conversation’:

SD: Hey KitKat! You sure you don’t want to come out with us tonight? The drinks will be on us remember Birthday Girl!? xx  
KR: Haha thanks Soph! But I think I’ll just stick to my birthday tradition of a relaxing night in. Probs will get a takeaway and watch a chickflick - you know me! x  
SD: Let me know if you change your mind! Have a good night otherwise. Oh I’ve been meaning to ask you; how’s that new fella of yours, Robert or something? xx  
KR: Richard? Yeh we’re just friends now. Haven’t heard from him in a while. He left the country to ‘get away from it all’ just before Sherlock Holmes’ suicide. You’ve just reminded me though – he gave me some wine before he left for my Birthday. I may have a glass or two tonight. x  
SD: Don’t have too much though – we’re working tomorrow remember! xx  
KR: You’re the one going out tonight! x  
SD: Oh yeh… haha but wine is a worse hangover than vodka any day of the week! xx  
KR: Yeh but Soph, you wont be just having vodka. Mixing drinks is even worse! x  
SD: How would you know - you never come out? xx  
KR: Office Gossip is a curse. x  
SD: Whatever… lol I’ll see you tomorrow then? xx  
KR: See you tomorrow. Have a good night! xxx  
SD: You too! xxx 

John quickly read the conversation twice, trying his best to cover up his involuntary flinch when ‘Richard’ was mentioned. ‘So they were actually dating.’

_“Obviously John, I knew the second we walked, well broke, into her flat that she was living there with a man; bottles of aftershave and the paper open at the previous days football results were a big hint. There was only one bedroom and no pillows or blankets on or near the couch, which would assume that the one bedroom was sufficient, therefore their relationship was somewhat romantic. Even you should have been able to pick up on that. Other things told me of course that the relationship wasn’t that well established yet, and that the man was probably using her for some reason, most likely a place to live, and therefore probably unemployed or in-between jobs. Ironic that ‘an out of work actor’ fits that description perfectly isn’t it?”_

‘Yes _thank you_ Sherlock. I don’t suppose I could trouble you for any help on _current_ issues?’

_“Shower.”_

‘What?’

_“You heard me.”_

John sighed and shook his head. “Is the body still here?”

“Yes, we’re treating this as a crime scene and recovering as much information as possible. Of course Ms Denis moved the body to perform CPR, and the paramedics needed to examine it thoroughly, but for the photographic and forensic evidence we’ve tried to keep everything as it was found. There’s still a lot of blood in the bathtub, but the water running all night has removed a lot of evidence. Follow me.”

Something John had never fully gotten used to was the sight of dead bodies. Despite his profession and his military service he was always unnerved by the complete and utter stillness of a corpse. No sounds, no movement, no thoughts, it was an empty shell. The smallest tribute to what once had been. He initially felt appalled and guilty when he was required to examine and inspect them, but he forced himself to see it as his duty to their memory to find out what happened to them; to give them a nobler death, and a death with understanding and reason. It helped him put on the mask, so others believed he was calm, even though he was an emotional wreck behind it all. He briefly thought about how much he admired Molly for doing it all day, every day, and barely batting an eyelid. He could understand the ‘Family and Friends’ policy though; he was sure that even Molly wouldn’t have been able to put on the calm mask to examine Sherlock’s shell. ‘Don’t think about that now! Focus John.’

_“I thought I was just a shell anyway…”_

‘You know you weren’t.’

Greg politely kicked out the small forensics team currently huddled inside the small bathroom and lead John and Sally in. Kitty’s body looked impossibly small huddled in a small pool of blood and water in the bathtub. The shower had been switched off but her naked flesh still glistened from water. She was currently facing away from them so that they could clearly see the injury that caused her death. ‘It was a large blunt object. Hit with force.’

“The forensic guys have said they’ve recovered some traces of metal from the wound.” Greg said as though he’d been following John’s thoughts. “That material, force and size would of course suggest that she slipped in the shower and banged her head on the metallic adjuster. Initially fell unconscious from the blow, and died from a combination of second-impact syndrome, which transpired when her head was bashed again on the bathtub; causing the second and fatal concussion, and blood loss. Any thoughts?”

“Shower…” John muttered under his breath. He ignored the body and focused on the bog-standard hose attached to the wall. “Was there any shampoo, conditioner or soap on the body when she was found?”

“I don’t think so, she could have slipped before she got around to any of that, and the water would have been running for the entire 14 hours, so it would have probably been washed away.”

John reached for the various bottles in the shower stand next to the sink. None had been used recently. ‘Is that important? I don’t know probably. Why is the _shower_ important?’

_“You know what I’m going to say here don’t you John?”_

‘Go on…’

_“Seeing but not observing.”_

‘Bugger off.’

John turned around to face a confused Lestrade and Donovan. He sighed and rubbed his eyes in thought. “Do we have _anything_ to suggest this might be suspicious? Because no matter what, our gut feeling is going to mean sod all in the end.”

Lestrade deflated and shook his head. John could feel a headache coming on. He could do with a night of ‘relaxing’ for himself to be honest… HANG ON! “Wait… Donovan, Sally… Tell me. What would you say is a ‘relaxing’ night in?”

“John what has that got to do with…?”

“Just… please bare with me on this ok?”

Sally stared at him before shrugging her shoulders in surrender. “Oh I don’t know. What she said in those texts… a takeaway; don’t have to worry about cooking, a cheesy chick flick or generic feel-good film. Why?”

“Ok let me be a bit more specific; If you were planning a ‘lazy and relaxing’ evening, and wanted to go to bed say ‘feeling fresh’, what would you do?”

Sally answered instinctively: “A nice warm bath… OH!”

“Exactly! Who has a _shower_ in the evenings, unless you’re in a rush, or wanting a quick clean? She was having a _relaxing_ night off, surely she would have had a bath rather than a shower?” Something else caught John’s attention on the toilet. “Are these her clothes?” Lestrade shrugged and Sally looked perpetually confused. “Why are they folded? Surely if she’d been wearing them all day she’d have just flung them off, or at the most put them in a hamper, I mean why _folded_?” Lestrade’s eyes began to widen as they each individually began slotting small pieces of information together.

John budged past Lestrade and Sally and rushed into the kitchen. “Look, her food is still out on the table, she didn’t clear it away. Again, very strange, normally a shower or a bath later in the evening would be followed by bed fairly soon. You wouldn’t want to be clearing away dishes and rubbish just after you’ve had a wash, and I don’t think Kitty Riley, the organised and ambitious journalist, is happy to just leave things lying aro…” seeing the half filled glass of wine stopped John in his tracks. It was a deep red – almost black. He picked up the glass and sniffed the liquid curiously. The wine had a slightly woody scent mixed in with the familiar rich fruits, it was clearly strongly flavoured, and as he searched for the bottle John could have guessed it was going to be relatively expensive.

It was. John recognised the brand, but not the particular blend. The name of the wine however was not what he was interested in; the open bottle still had plenty of wine left in it, but the gift tag was still in place around its neck;

**_“Happy Birthday Darling.  
_ _Thank you for Everything.  
_ _-RB”_**

John stared at the handwritten words; he even read them in that psychopath’s horrible sing-songy voice that he always used to tease and torment him and Sherlock. Before he could smash the bottle with rage he thrust it into Lestrade’s hands. “A gift for your department, though I would highly recommend that they don’t drink any of it.”

“What…How?”

“Oh and be sure to make a note that Kitty Riley’s post-mortem should also focus on searching for any drugs in her bloodstream – most likely basic sleeping ones.” John smiled sweetly and began a thorough search of Kitty Riley’s possessions. Leaving Greg and Sally gawping at him with very amusing expressions.


	17. What can you Deduce?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Further investigations into Miss. Riley's death, and John consoles his 'ghost' of Sherlock to help him along. Also constant uses of Taxis leads to a shortage of money, and another means of transport - not that THAT'S important :P

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quickly - I have no clue as to the proper protocol regarding police scenes and investigations. I'm not really a crime show watcher and I doubt they're 100% accurate/consistent anyway. So please accept my apologises if I've got something wrong in that context.

As John began methodically searching the possessions of Kitty Riley’s kitchen and living room he heard the faint, yet unmistakable, beeps from Lestrade’s mobile as he informed the Superintendent of their progress.

‘It’s small I suppose; but it’s a start.’

_“It’s good John.”_

‘Whatever, you’d have this all wrapped up by now in a pretty pink ribbon.’

_“Probably, but I wouldn’t have bothered with the ribbon, standard Sellotape would’ve been sufficient.”_

‘Of course – my mistake.’

_“Erm… John?”_

‘Yeah?’

_“What are you searching for exactly?”_

‘A diary, or a notebook; something like that of her’s. Oh, and anything else written in that psychopath’s handwriting, though I doubt he’s been that careless twice.’

_“Hmm…”_

‘Go on…’

_“What?”_

‘Say it.’

_“I don’t follow…”_

‘Don’t act so innocent; “There’s no point John… blah blah blah… stop being stupid… blah blah… too obvious… BLAH!” and etcetera.’

_“Actually, I was thinking that it was, you know… good.”_

‘I beg your pardon?’

_“Yes, it’s a good idea. It’s what I would have done.”_

‘Oh, really?’

_“Yes, but I wouldn’t have wasted my time in here of course. The bedroom is a much more likely place for such items.”_

‘Oh… Right. Well, yes I suppose…’

John immediately interrupted his own pointless study of Kitty’s multitude of old magazines and without uttering a word to Lestrade or Sally, headed straight towards the flat’s only bedroom. As soon as he opened the door his gaze shot straight away to a small desk, neatly on top of which, was a little red Filofax. He sighed and immediately thought ‘Shut up.’

_“I didn’t say anyth…”_

‘You didn’t have to.’

“Hmph. How about a ‘thank you’ instead?”

John smirked but didn’t reply. ‘Just to spite my own fucking memory, I’m not going to talk to it. I’m seriously loosing my wits.’

_“Oh I wouldn’t say that.”_

‘Go away.’

_“I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t need me.”_

‘Then shut-up. For now anyway.’

_“Fine.”_

John walked over to the desk and picked up the leather bound diary. He flicked through a few of the pages, relieved to find that Kitty, unlike Sherlock, did not remove weeks from her organiser as soon as they were over.

_“Why on earth would I keep them in them John? They’re a waste of space and I have no need to refer back to previous exertions. Besides the whole point of these things is that you can add and remove the diary pages.”_

‘What happened to you shutting up? And looking back over previous activities can be very useful sometimes. Particularly now for us; we can look at what Miss Riley was up to before and around the time she was writing that article.’

 _“I wouldn’t exactly call that an advantage for_ her _.”_

‘That’s assuming she’s played a very guilty role in all of this.’

_“She probably has.”_

‘I know she wasn’t the nicest person ever, but from what I understand you weren’t exactly Mr. Charming either. You honestly don’t believe that she was involved fully knowing the extent of her actions do you?’

_“Innocent until proven guilty?”_

‘Yes.’

_“Alright for some…”_

John flinched at that and decided to pocket the diary instead of studying it there and then. There were more important things for them all to be getting on with now. John pulled his phone out of his pocket and sent his first text ever to Molly.

_“We’ve got a body for you. Interesting case, will you help?  
_ _JW”_

He pressed send as he walked slowly back into the living room. He was met by Sally and Greg both waiting for him and with their arms crossed. John ignored the fact that they looked like parents about to confront their rebellious teenager who’s late home after a night out, and stated; “I’m waiting on Molly Hooper to reply, but I’m sure she’ll be more than happy to assist us, I’m done here though I think.”

Greg considered John thoughtfully before saying, “I see. Well the forensics team is almost done, we’ve already sent of the wine to be tested and we’ll be transporting the body as soon as possible. Did you find whatever the hell it was you were looking for?”

“Looks like you don’t need me for now then,” John smiled, “and yes I did thanks.” Greg raised his eyebrows in a question, John thought about ignoring it but his politeness over-rode his impatience. “Her diary. Do you mind if I take it and have a look through. I’ll let you know if I find anything.”

Lestrade looked puzzled for a minute, and opened his mouth to say something before abruptly closing it again on second thoughts. He shook his head at himself, and then nodded it at John. Sally said nothing, but John caught her worried expression. Before he could say anything else a beep from his phone struck the awkward quietness and Lestrade’s phone began to ring. Lestrade answered the call; the Superintendant, and John looked at Molly’s reply.

_“Sure, bring it over whenever. Anything I need to know before it arrives?_

_Molly x”_

“Molly’s happy to help.” John said to Sally.

“Good, we’d go to her anyway. She’s by far the best.” John felt a jolt of pride swell in his chest. It was silly really; he’d always known Molly was good at her job. But it was nice to know that she was regarded so highly at the Yard.

_“Young female, fatal concussion, also probably would’ve been drugged in someway. Possible murder.  
_ _JW”_

The reply was almost instantaneous.

_“I thought you said ‘interesting’?”_

John scoffed at his phone, unable to believe his eyes. He began to write a reply when he received another text.

_“No wait! Oh my, that sounded horrible. I didn’t mean it like that! I meant that the cause of death seems quite straightforward. I’m sorry.  
_ _Molly x”_

_“It’s the reporter who wrote that article on Sherlock.  
_ _JW”_

_“Really?  
_ _Molly x”_

_“Yep, it’ll be there within an hour probably. I’ll come by later to see if I can help in anyway.  
_ _JW”_

_“OK. See you soon. xx”_

John pocketed his phone just as Lestrade ended his call and did the same. The three of them stood in Kitty’s living room in a tense silence. John was becoming agitated, and suddenly felt an overwhelming desire to go back to the flat for a few hours. He felt guilty for leaving Sally and Greg, but he knew he would just get in their way if he went with them back to Scotland Yard. He lowered his voice so that it became barely more than a whisper. “I hope I’ve been helpful today. Thank you for letting me be involved. Please let me know the results from the wine, and I’ll pop into Bart’s myself to speak to Molly. I’m just trying to patch all these links together and I think I just need some peace and quiet.” He glanced at Greg, though he hadn’t actually asked a question he waited for his answer.

Greg nodded. “We’ll call you if we need you.” John smiled, but said nothing as he turned and left the small flat. He started to hail a cab before he realised he was almost completely out of cash. He glanced around the almost deserted street to get his bearings and headed quickly towards the nearest tube station.

He didn’t actually mind using the tube at times like this. It was relatively quiet during the day, you were lucky if you managed to get a seat in the carriages but at least you weren’t crammed in so you could barely breath next to complete and utter strangers. Luckily the closest station was also a stop for the Jubilee line so John wouldn’t have to change before he got home. He trotted down the stairs and walked through the tunnel to get to the station. As always there were several beggars hovering around the tunnel. Though John always felt slightly guilty, he pointedly ignored them. Whether anyone else thought he was right or wrong to think so, he was of the firm opinion that not one homeless person deserved his charity above another. If he gave money to one beggar, he’d therefore feel morally obliged to give money to every other vagrant he saw that day.

He was nearing the end of the tunnel when he suddenly stopped in his tracks. He had no idea why until he registered the soft melody that had begun to play behind him. He turned on the spot, and a man walked into him accidentally, he mumbled an apology as he hurried past. John ignored the encounter, his gaze fixed upon a young woman. She was thin, her clothes hung limply on her skinny frame and her hair was dark and short. She looked barely older than 15, but John knew she was probably in her early twenties, her malnourishment causing her to look much younger and more fragile. Her eyes were closed and she was playing a beautiful old Viola. The tune was an octave or two lower than John was used to hearing, but it was still unmistakably Mancini’s ‘Moon River’. Sherlock had played it more often than he’d care to admit when he was alive, particularly when he was bottling something up. It was a simple tune to play, but was always burdened with expressive emotions. It was a truly beautiful melody.

The girl stopped playing and opened her eyes, catching John watching her. He smiled and she returned it with one of her own before resuming her playing. John fumbled in his pocket quickly and found a couple of pound coins. Without thinking he slowly walked towards the young woman and dropped the coins into her almost empty viola case.

“Thank you sir.” The girl had stopped playing again and was looking at John with piercing green eyes. John smiled warmly but didn’t reply as he turned away and walked towards the station. As he continued he swore he heard her start to play ‘On My Own’ from Les Misérables, but that would be too much of a coincidence, wouldn’t it? 

* * *

 

John arrived back at 221B without further incident and proceeded to make himself a much anticipated cup of tea. He sat down and regarded the armchair opposite from him. ‘I see what you mean now.’

_“What do you mean?”_

‘I tried to sort things out in my head at Kitty Riley’s home, but there were too many distractions, too much noise. You’re right, you need silence in order for it to work properly.’

_“Wrong.”_

‘What?’

 _“John, complete silence is just as distracting as a loud noise. What you need to think is_ natural _noise. Listen for a moment, even in the flat, which only you are in, there_ _are noises: the distant hum of the cars outside, the ticking of that ridiculously loud clock you insisted on buying, and the faint whir of the bathroom fan because you forgot to turn off the light this morning. All these noises help you relax, because they’re normal and reassuring. If there was no noise at all you’d be on edge and paranoid; which is a natural instinct.”_

John sighed as he realised it was true. ‘Only you would bloody disagree with me when I am trying to compliment you.’

_“I’m flattered.”_

John laughed to himself, settled into his armchair, took one last sip of tea and closed his eyes. The Campsite had grown since his last visit, the tents were slightly larger and there seemed to be more activity going between them. He first visited Corporal Lyon’s tent, the tired soldiers were examining a drawing on the large table in the centre of the tent. It was a picture of two silhouetted figures – his alleged blackmailers. Notes had been scribbled around the edges in a variety of handwritings: ‘Knew his position at the base’, ‘knew about the gas being transported’, ‘Van – unmarked? Brand? Colour? Rented?’, ‘Professionals – trusted by JM’. John knew that Moriarty being involved, which was inevitable, meant that it would be difficult to trace anything back to him, however they’d been extremely lucky in many respects regarding this case so far so he made a mental note to look into Van hires and CCTV footage surrounding the school at the time of the kidnapping. He was pleased that his subconscious was still keeping track of his thoughts even when he wasn’t in his Mind Field, he’d expected the Campsite to be far less organised since he hadn’t visited it in a few days and had received quite a lot of information in that time.

He quickly moved onto Kitty Riley’s tent, which was no longer quiet and had almost doubled in size. The first thing John noticed was a large whiteboard strung up on the right-hand wall. The board had been sectioned off into a temporary calendar; each box titled with a different date. No other information was on the board yet; John would be able to fill it in when he had a proper look at her diary, but some of the dates were written in red, rather than black, making them stand out. On further inspection John recognised some of the highlighted dates, the court dates for example and the day they visited Kitty’s home, and Sherlock’s suicide. There were other dates in too but John couldn’t see their importance for the moment. He made a mental note of all the highlighted dates to refer back to when he was studying her Filofax. He moved in and began to study the soldiers moving around her tent. ‘Hard-working’, ‘Tidy’, ‘Resourceful’ and ‘Punctual’ were all grouped together in a frantic discussion. John ignored them for now, what he was really interested in was Kitty’s ‘relationship’ with Moriarty. A young female soldier approached and handed over her dog tags before walking away.

 

_“Name: Relationship_  
 _DOB: Sometime after Moriarty’s release_  
 _Nature: Romantic as well as professional  
_ _Side effects: Trust, Forgiveness, unsuspicious gifts.”_

John considered this information. He still didn’t know whether Kitty was aware of the truth behind Richard Brooke, but he suspected she knew something, otherwise she wouldn’t have been targeted. She would have had to trust him either way, and forgiveness was a basic part of any intimate relationship, be it for big or small faults, and of course there was the wine. John had no doubts that it had been laced with something, (Mental note; research the brand – how could the drug have been added?) and it had been given under apparently romantic pretences. It still didn’t give John any information that was drastically new to the case. He looked at the other dog tag, there was less writing, but it was larger:

 

_“Has to go both ways.”_

John looked again at the first tag; ‘Trust, Forgiveness, unsuspicious gifts.” Of course! In order for the ‘romantic’ relationship to work Moriarty would have had to trust Kitty in return, whether she knew about the truth or not. Forgiveness; well Sherlock and John had ‘found’ him at her flat, even if it was part of his scheme Kitty would still have to be convinced that he’d forgiven her for it if she was going to trust him. But what if she knew about him actually being Moriarty, what would she have needed to be ‘forgiven’ for then? Perhaps the way she found out? She was a resourceful and innovative journalist, she could have researched him and found out more than he’d planned. (Mental note: Kitty Riley’s Internet history). What about ‘unsuspicious gifts’? Well the main gift that Moriarty had received from Kitty was the removal and disgrace of Sherlock Holmes, and his own freedom. He could have got all of that from Kitty though without the romantic element. The fact that their relationship was more than professional was important; like Sherlock, Moriarty never did anything without a reason behind it.

Slightly deflated John exited the campsite. He’d return to Moriarty’s, Irene’s and Moran’s tents later. He doubted he would find anything new in them from the past few days. Irene’s involvement still confused him, and Moran’s tent was still too small to seem productive, and he wanted to avoid Moriarty’s tent at all costs, the fact that the man seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth greatly unnerved him and examining his knowledge of the mad Irishman would probably do little to subdue the nervous feeling that he was planning something. Before he left completely he brought up the list he’d made on the visit; it looked like a supply checklist. He grabbed a pen and paper and quickly wrote them all down, checking each one off as he did so.

He left the Mind Field entirely, happy that it had been more successful than last time, and encouraged by the surprisingly large list he had in front of him to investigate. A lot of the points required information he could only reach through Lestrade and Scotland Yard, however there was one he could get started on straight away. He fumbled in his jacket pocket for Kitty’s little red Filofax and tugged it out. As he did so a small strip of paper was forced out with it and fell to the floor by his chair. John picked it up. The paper was crumpled and discoloured, but John could clearly read the five words scrawled in black.

 

**_I Believe in Sherlock Holmes_ **


	18. The Diary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John looks through Kitty's diary, and John and Greg go visit Molly at the lab.

**_I Believe in Sherlock Holmes_ **

 

John stared at the paper, completely dumbfounded. He tried to smooth over the crumpled lines, as though he was convinced that the many creases were distorting the words. They couldn’t say that. Could they?

After rubbing his eyes several times and moving the small note around to examine it from every angle, he had to conclude that it did indeed say what he thought it did. ‘What the hell?’

_“Man in the tube station.”_

‘What?’

_“The one who bumped into you.”_

‘Ah, yes well…I suppose so.’

_“Your pocket must have been open, he most likely slipped it in when he ‘accidentally’ bumped into you.”_

‘Funnily enough, I’d figured that out for myself thank you. Besides, I’m not that concerned about _how_ he did it, but more about _why_ he did it.’

_“_ Why _often derives from_ how _, and vice versa.”_

‘Go on then; amaze me.’

_“Figure it out for yourself – you have a clue, a rather large clue I might add. Just use that brain of yours and you’ll get there.”_

John sighed and returned to staring blankly at the small strip of paper. Other than deducing that the words had been scribbled in a slight rush, and not against a flat surface, John had nothing.

Before he could get frustrated with himself he quickly jotted down “Homeless man – Note” onto his checklist and resolved to return to the matter later. He brought his focus back to the little Filofax perched on his armrest. He flipped to a new page in his notebook and quickly jotted down the highlighted dates from Kitty Riley’s tent his Mind Field, leaving a reasonable space between them.

Finally happy with his organisation, John picked up the diary and began flicking through the pages. Thankfully it was a one week every two pages layout so it didn’t take him long to find the desired dates. The first thing that struck John was how empty the diary appeared to be considering Kitty was a journalistic reporter. The thought quickly passed as he concluded that the diary was more likely to be personal, given it's size and the location he had found it, and it was highly probably that she had a significantly larger one-day-per-page organiser somewhere at the office.

He quickly skimmed through the pages until he found the week corresponding to the trial when Sherlock met Kitty for the first time. Before then nothing unusual had cropped up other than Sophie Denis’s Birthday (29) and someone’s funeral. John didn’t recognise the name, it might have been a family member. He stopped flicking through the diary. He hadn’t spared a thought for Kitty’s family; they’d probably be being informed of her death at this very moment. He did not at all envy the police officer that had to do it. That was assuming, of course, that she had any close relatives still alive. John thought back to that morning; he had been in her house the day after her birthday, and he had not seen a single card or any evidence to suggest recently unwrapped gifts, other than the wine. John tried to push aside the pity that was welling up inside him for the young reporter; he was after all only speculating. Still, he made a mental note of the name jotted down and returned to the task at hand.

The few days before the trial were completely blank, save for the letter ‘w’ written immediately after the day. On the day of the trial, the letters were ‘n w’ instead. From previous weeks John quickly figured out that it was most likely a code representing ‘work’ and ‘no work’, as a quick indication for her days off. John had had a similar system in his own diary when he was working at the clinic; a ‘s’ for when he had hours at the surgery, and an ‘o c’ for when he was on call. So she hadn’t been working on that day. There were also the times and address for the trial, and in the ‘notes’ at the end of the week there was a list of all the things she used to pull off her ‘fanatic’ act in the bathroom; ink, recorder, pen, hat, badge etcetera. She’d also noted the day of the verdict in her diary, which was also accompanied with the letter ‘w’, so she had been at work

There was nothing else until the following weekend. Saturday: “Ring TW”. Sunday: “Dinner with Richard.” The following few weeks consisted of a few dinners and meetings with ‘Richard’ and one other mention of whoever ‘TW’ was. Three weeks to the day after the first dinner; “Richard move in”, and “Birthday dinner 8:00; Vertigo 42”. Well it clearly hadn’t been to celebrate her birthday, so it must have been Richard’s. John smiled at the thought of Moriarty having a birthday, never mind celebrating it, and wondered if it was his real birthday. He would check the news later for that date – no doubt if Moriarty had celebrated his birthday, he would have done it in a non-conventional style.

The diary then noted vital deadline dates for Kitty’s initial and final reports concerning Sherlock; one week, and the day before his suicide respectively. The rest of the diary was comparatively blank. There were no more mentions of Richard or ‘TW’. The code indicated she was at work a lot more, possibly due to a promotion after her ‘breakthrough’ story. John looked ahead to see if Kitty had had anything else coming up, but found it just as empty.

* * *

After visiting the nearest cash point, John hopped into a cab and went to Scotland Yard. He found Lestrade and Donovan surrounded by a bunch of paperwork in Greg’s office. Probably trying to organise and prioritise the notes. John handed him the diary and explained what he’d found out from it, which wasn’t much. He also quickly recovered his checklist and asked about the CCTV footage.

Greg already knew the answer. “We already knew the colour, make and model of the van used from the initial investigations. Unfortunately there were no cameras near the entrance so we didn’t see the kidnapper get in or out. The licence plate was faked “1T M4N” – an inside joke I believe?”

John couldn’t hide the faint snort. “Alright so no lead there. Anything else?”

“Yes, actually. It’s standard protocol to investigate someone’s Internet history when they have a suspicious death. Miss. Riley’s has been wiped completely clean. Normally we have ways to get around this, as most people’s deleted history can be recovered. But hers had been done… shall we say… rather well? I don’t think she was a particular IT whizz, so we’re now dusting her laptop for any other prints. We also couldn’t find her phone, we hoped you had taken it and had _forgotten_ to inform us.”

John raised is eyebrows at the faint insult, but furrowed them almost immediately. “No. No I didn’t take it. I didn’t even think about it, all I took was the diary, I promise. Are you sure it wasn’t there? I mean we know she had been texting Sophie Denis that evening.”

“Shit!” Lestrade picked up his phone and quickly dialled a number. “Yes it’s me. John doesn’t have the phone. Search _everywhere_ thoroughly.” He put down the phone. “Our boys still haven’t got anywhere with the wine by the way. Have you visited Molly Hooper yet?” John shook his head. “Alright, Sal you stay here while John and I go to Bart’s. Keep me updated, and if you have time, start looking into Kitty Riley’s family and work colleagues. Find out whose funeral that was and who ‘TW’ could be.”

“Yes sir.” Sally nodded. As John followed Lestrade out of the room he turned and nodded his thanks to Sally Donovan. She smiled in reply.

* * *

They found Molly in the lab. She smiled when they entered. John smiled back. Lestrade immediately jumped in with the questions. “Have you found anything yet? What is the…”

“Whoa!” Molly said, raising her blue latex clad hands. “Give me a chance, I only got the body thirty minutes ago, and I was in the middle of another post mortem at the time.” John couldn’t help but smile. It was good to see Molly exerting her authority. “I’ve only had time for a quick look at the body. Cause of death was definitely due to concussion and blood loss, as you thought. There was also a small amount water from the shower discovered in her lungs but not her stomach, so she was dead before the water entered her system and therefore didn’t even partially drown, which is odd if she was discovered in the shower. She wouldn’t have died instantaneously from the concussion, and even 30 seconds unconscious under a steam of water would have triggered the epiglottis to seal off her lungs to avoid the water entering her respiratory system. Therefore it is likely that she was dead before she was under the shower stream. There are also bruises around her body, no evidence of fingerprints though. I’m just about to start the analysis of her blood like you asked.” Lestrade just stared at Molly, and John nodded in approval. “I’ve left Mike to study the bruises, he’s always much quicker about that then I am. I’m sure he’ll talk you through it Inspector if you want to see the body for yourself?” Lestrade was completely flustered, and nodded quickly before hurrying out of the room and heading down to the Mortuary.

John watched him leave and then turned to face Molly with a smug smile playing on his lips. “That was amazing. I hadn’t even thought to check whether the water had entered her lungs or stomach.”

Molly laughed. “Thank you. I know suffocation wasn’t the cause of death in this case, but since water had been involved I thought I ought to test it.”

John nodded in agreement. “Brilliant.”

Molly blushed and returned to analysing the blood. “Have you heard from our mysterious texter?” She inquired quietly after a few minutes of intense silence, eyes still fixed on the microscope.

John had almost forgotten about them. “Oh, ermmm no. Have you?”

“Nope, me neither. I don’t know whether that’s good or bad to be honest.”

“It’s probably…” * **BEEP** * They both jumped and looked around the lab as though someone was watching them. John took out Sherlock’s phone carefully. Nothing. He then took out his own. It was a text from Sarah. “Don’t worry, it’s someone else.” He laughed and read Sarah’s text.

_“Hey John, hope you’re ok. We’ve missed you at the clinic. Tamsin’s going on maternity leave again next month, I know you haven’t worked here for a while but it’ll save me advertising - Fancy some locum work?  
_ _Sarah x.”_

John smiled at the text. He’d worked for a long period at the clinic initially, and then as and when they’d needed him. When Sherlock’s cases had become more frequent however, he’d stopped working for them all together. Luckily the practice had recovered most of its members and therefore was not in desperate need for a locum. He’d stayed in contact with Sarah though; the only ex-girlfriend who he’d remained reasonably good friends with. She’d understood the situation with Sherlock, and had seemed to be prepared to put up with it. John had however noticed the growing mutual fondness between her and Mark, their receptionist, and had therefore gracefully backed out before anything became too serious and ended with a messy break-up. As far as he knew the pair were still together.

_“I’m quite busy at the moment, but I don’t know what I’ll be up to next month, and some work might just be the ticket. Can I ring you tonight to talk about it more? I’m sort of in the middle of something at the moment.  
_ _JW”_

_“What about dinner instead? I haven’t seen you in ages, and I think we need a catch-up. I heard about Sherlock by the way, I could hardly believe it, I’m really sorry.  
Sarah x”_

_“Sounds great. 7pm La Tasca?  
_ _JW”_

_“See you there! Xx”_

John smiled as he returned his phone to his pocket. Molly quickly glanced up from her work. “Who was it?”

“Sarah, asking me about returning to work.”

“Oh… erm ok.” There was a brief pause and Molly returned to studying the blood sample. “Anything else come up from the case?”

John sighed and leant against the table, wishing he could help Molly in some way. “Not really. Other than a man slipping me a note on the underground that said ‘I Believe in Sherlock Holmes’.” He gave a shaky laugh.

“What?!” Molly snapped up from her microscope, eyes blown wide.

John, though confused at Molly’s reaction, casually reached into his pocket and withdrew the scrap of paper and handed it over. “Yeh, they barged into me in the underground and I found that in my pocket when I got home earlier today. I’m still trying to figure out what it means. After scanning the words several times Molly dropped the piece of paper and rushed across the room to her handbag, muttering under her breath. “What’s wrong?”

Molly continued to search her handbag as she spoke. “I’d completely forgotten… Found it in my letterbox this morning before I left for work… was going to text you…Aha!” She emerged holding a second scrap piece of paper and almost ran across the room, thrusting it into John’s hand. “They have to be linked. They absolutely have to be!”

John read the paper. More confused than ever:

 

**_Moriarty was real_ **


	19. Wie heißen Sie?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sally researches Kitty Reilly's family History and Anderson reveals what was in the wine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Anderson is not as big of a git as he usually is in this. I hope it's not too OOC.

Sally Donovan sighed. She’d finally finished organising the case notes and putting them away for Greg in the correct filing cabinets. She made herself a strong cup of coffee, white with sweetener instead of sugar, before returning to her desk with Kitty Riley’s Filofax to hand.

After logging on to the system database she flicked through the diary until she found the week of the funeral. She entered the name into the database. It was a woman who had died of Lung Cancer at the age of 56, she was a divorcee with one child; Sophie Denis. She’d died one week after her daughter’s 29th birthday. So that was the connection. Sally quickly texted Greg, it probably wasn’t important but he’d asked her to keep him updated.

She then began a background check on Kitty’s immediate family. Her screen flashed up a news headline straight away from 22 years ago; “Tragic Family Car Accident; All but one dead”. Her parents, Mark and Suzanne, her twin brother Peter and her aunt Amelia had all died in the accident. On an annual family holiday to the Lake District they’d been caught driving in the middle of a thunderstorm. The driver, Mark, lost control and ended up spinning off the road. Trees had hit both sides of the car and Kitty had been the only one who had avoided serious impact as she’d been sat in the centre in the back. Both Mark and Suzanne had been declared dead at the scene, Amelia and Peter died from head wounds in the hospital. Kitty suffered from whiplash, nothing more.

Donovan read stuff like this all the time, but it still didn’t stop her from feeling a small pang of sadness for Kitty. Adoption records indicated that her English Grandmother, Jessica Riley, had raised her after the accident. However Mrs. Riley had died ten years ago. Her mother’s family was German, and Kitty’s only living relative was her German Grandfather, Emil Fiedler, who suffered with Alzheimer’s disease. Again Donovan informed Lestrade of her findings, they’d have to contact the Nursing Home in Germany to inform them of his Granddaughter’s death. It would then be their decision whether to tell him or not.

Donovan closed down the database and decided to check her emails. She needed to keep herself busy, she couldn’t afford to get too emotional in her job, and she knew it. She was soon interrupted by a tall presence at her desk. She looked up from her screen to find Anderson’s cool eyes bearing down on her.

“What?” She asked abruptly. The pair hadn’t spoken in weeks, Sally had been careful to avoid him as much as possible.

Anderson’s lip twitched in frustration. “I’ve just brought you the complete analysis of the wine, but if you don’t want it I’m sure the shredder will be politer to me.”

“Oh for crying out loud! Give it here.” Sally ordered as she stood up quickly. She snatched the wad of paper out of Anderson’s hands and began scanning the pages. “Well, save me some time here – was there anything?”

“Actually, yes.” Anderson said, sitting down in Sally’s now vacant chair, a look of genuine concern spread across his features. “It’s been laced with Ketamine, a strong and fast acting sedative. It induces a ‘relaxed’ state on the victim, in smaller doses like this it doesn’t cause unconsciousness, but can limit a persons ability and willingness to move.”

Sally looked up from the report in disbelief. Her eyes growing wide as understanding dawned. “What?”

Anderson nodded sadly. “We’ll need the results from the mortuary to determine how long the drug was in her system before she died, but it seems Kitty Riley may have died whilst aware on some level of what was happening to her and rather helpless to do anything about it.”

Sally couldn’t speak. She needed to sit down, but Anderson was in her chair, so she moved a stack of paper and perched herself on the edge of the desk. Poor Kitty.

“Ermm Sally?”

“Hmmm?

“Are you ok?” She hadn’t even noticed Anderson stand up. He hesitated before resting his hand on he arm comfortingly. She still couldn’t speak, so just shook her head. “I’m sorry.” Sally blinked back tears as she looked up at Anderson’s face, his normally harsh feature had softened and he was biting his lip, thinking hard.

Sally faltered slightly. “Are _you_ ok?”

“Not really. I’ve been thinking a lot about this case, and something’s been bothering me about it.”

Sally sighed in frustration. “Oh for fuck’s sake Anderson! Isn’t _this_ proof enough that Sherlock’s suicide wasn’t so straight forward?! I know we didn’t exactly get on with the man, and he was a complete arsehole at times, but revenge for the sake of revenge is just… CHILDISH!”

Anderson coiled back at the outburst and raised his hands defensively. “Sally, no that’s not what I meant. And this isn’t about reven… Wait! That’s it: Revenge!” Anderson placed both palms to his forehead and twirled on the spot, clearly in the middle of some sort of epiphany. He stopped and looked at Sally expectantly; she was completely confused and shook her head to signal that she didn’t understand. “Sally, the thing that’s been bugging me for the past few days, has been Rich Brooke. I didn’t know why, just something about the name seemed… wrong. But do you remember that case when we met John Watson for the first time?”

“A Pink Study, or whatever it was? Yeah I remember.”

“The carving on the floor spelt ‘Rache’ which I thought could be related to the German word for ‘revenge’.” Sally nodded to show she was following so far, she knew a little German, but knew that Anderson was almost fluent. “It’s only just hit me now; the German for Rich Brooke is…”

They both said it together

**_“…Reichenbach”_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'German' seems to be a theme throughout the entire Sherlock series: 'Rache' in ASIP, the German tourists Sherlock steals the A-Z book from in TBB, 'Hansel and Gretel' in TRF and of course Reichenbach (And I'm sure if I watched all the episodes back properly I may find more), so I thought I'd continue it a bit with Kitty's family and how Anderson knew what 'Rache' meant anyway.
> 
> The drug is real; listed as one of the three common 'date-rape' drugs.


	20. John Watson's Army

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to John and the mysterious notes. Will Sarah Sawyer prove helpful as she has done in the past?

**_I Believe in Sherlock Holmes_ **

**_Moriarty was real_ **

 

John sat down. The notes had to be linked, Molly was right. The question was why were they given to them? The handwriting on ‘Molly’s’ note was more feminine, written in blue ink instead of black, and the paper was much smoother; cut rather than torn with a single crease in the middle. A completely different person had written it, and yet there was no doubt that they must be connected to the other note in some way.

A text interrupted John’s brooding. It was from Lestrade; an update on the family history Sally Donovan had uncovered of Kitty Riley. John frowned as he read about the car accident and her Grandfather. It seemed Kitty had lived a rather lonely life. No wonder Moriarty had been able to worm his way into the girl’s life and win her affections.

“There’s definitely something here…” Molly’s voice brought his focus back to her and the blood sample. She’d returned to her microscope and her face was set in deep concentration. John didn’t answer her verbalised musings; he didn’t wish to disturb her thought process.

 _“Oh so you won’t interrupt_ Molly _when_ she’ _s thinking?”_

‘Yes but she’s not currently sat on my book, or laptop, or wallet etcetera.’

_“Not my fault they were on the sofa or chair where I wanted to sit.”_

‘That is where the thing that we talked about called “moving stuff out of the way” helps enormously.’

Before a witty comeback could be delivered, the doors to the lab suddenly sprang open and Lestrade swept into the room. His eyes fixed on Molly’s almost immediately. “Ketamine.”

Molly’s eyes widened in understanding. She grabbed a pipette and rummaged through the lab’s various chemicals until she found the one she was after. Before applying the solution to the sample she typed ferociously on one of the computers, and continued to glance at the screen as she returned to her experiment. John and Greg watched in silence as she worked. John, of course, knew about ketamine, it was sometimes used as an anaesthetic during operations. He was also aware of the other, less _legal_ uses for the drug.

The intensity of the silence built so much, John found himself waiting for Molly to have a ‘Eureka!’ moment. Instead she simply raised her head and looked at the two men, giving a single confirming nod. ‘I suppose not everyone can be as flamboyant as Sherlock was when they get a breakthrough in their work.’

_“I am NOT flamboyant!”_

‘Who are you trying to kid? You practically screamed “PINK!” in my face on our first case together.’

_“Whatever…”_

John and Greg waited patiently as Molly jotted down some notes before she began speaking. “Ok, so ketamine is definitely present as well as some alcohol from the wine. It’s hard to determine, particularly as the alcohol would have affected the intensity, but I’d say that the drug has been in the blood stream for approximately 18 hours. Death occurred 17 hours ago now. What has Mike figured out from the bruises?”

Lestrade stood up a little straighter. “There is evidence that she fell and banged her hip, but not as hard as it would have been had she fallen in the bathtub, so she probably fell onto a different surface with a softer landing, most likely the carpet floor. We also found slight bruising and scrapes on her hands, suggesting that she consciously tried to prevent or break the fall. This insinuates that the concussion transpired after this event.”

Molly nodded and handed her notes to Greg. They then both turned and faced John, each giving him a look inviting him to share his thoughts.

 _“Why should you have to_ wait _for an invitation to share your ideas; they might be vital to the case.”_

‘Unlike some people I happen to like being polite and considerate.’

_“Waste of time in my opinion.”_

‘You consciously made the decision to catalogue 243 different types of tobacco ash.’

_“Yes, I did. What’s the problem with that?”_

‘Never mind.’ A smirk plagued at John’s lips before he managed to school his face into a thoughtful expression to address Greg and Molly’s unasked question. He only had a small amount to add to what they already knew, and a lot of it was speculation, but _logical_ speculation. John was of the firm belief that Kitty’s fall was caused by consuming the drug shortly after finishing her dinner; so either occurred in the kitchen or living room. Because of the side effects of the drug on Kitty’s body, it would give anyone plenty of time to carefully enter the premises and set up the shower ‘scene’ without her being able to call for help or create a struggle difficult to cover up under police investigation. It could also suggest that there might have been a use of ‘recognisable’ uniforms, such as police officers or paramedics, so that she didn’t try to fight the drug initially. He was also convinced that more than one person was involved in it in order to undress and move Kitty’s body easily enough so as not to leave suspicious marks and bruises. As to her actual death, John didn’t want to dwell on the fact that Moriarty’s employees were unlikely to have made it quick. Again, in order to prevent any evidence of murder, she was probably taken into the bathroom, unclothed, and then hit on the back of the head with a metal bar. The clothes were checked to make sure they were clear of any blood, and then mistakenly folded on the toilet seat. Kitty was placed into the bath and the shower was turned on, any blood on the tiled floor was easily cleaned up.

Lestrade jotted down as much as he could and they discussed all the possibilities, before he finally snapped the book shut. “Excellent. Now I need to get back to the yard and see how Dimmock is getting on. He’s in charge of the Lyons and Hansel & Gretel case now.” He gave them a quick wave goodbye as he exited the door.

“He’s going to work himself sick if he’s not careful.” Molly was staring at the door that Greg had just disappeared from.

“Speak for yourself. Thank you for helping us, what time do you clock off?”

Molly spun and looked at the clock, “4 o’clock today, nice and early. Only quarter of an hour left. I’ll go downstairs and help Mike clear things away in the mortuary and then I’ll go.”

“I’ll join you.”

* * *

 

John returned home to find Mrs. Hudson had been upstairs and had done some housework as well as leaving him some lemon tarts in the kitchen – his favourite. He smiled and picked one up, nibbling at it as he boiled the kettle.

As he sat down with his tea and cake, on a plate so that he didn’t get crumbs everywhere, John mused over the living situation he was now in: Sherlock had jointly left John and Mrs. Hudson a handsome sum of money. It paid off the mortgage to the whole property, and covered bills for several months. So money was not an issue at the moment, however they would have to start paying bills in a few months, and even without rent to worry about London was an expensive place to live. A job would be nice, and John knew the clinic relatively well. He would almost certainly take Sarah up on her offer, however the post wasn’t permanent; he could discuss possibilities with her tonight. There was also Sherlock’s old bedroom to consider. It would be more practical for John to move into it, leaving the upstairs bedroom free for Mrs Hudson to rent out to temporary Lodgers. The thought of moving his stuff into Sherlock’s room though made his stomach churn. He couldn’t spend more than 5 minutes in there without feeling uncomfortable, how was he supposed to sleep in there?

_“John…?”_

‘Yes?’

_“It’s a room.”_

‘I know.’

_“But…?”_

‘It’s not that simple.’

_“It never is simple. But it is also not your main priority at the moment.”_

‘Jeez Sherlock, give me a break yeh? Not all of us can work 24/7 on a case without wilting!’

_“Actually I was referring to your dinner with Sarah. La Tasca is the other side of town, and with rush hour traffic, you’ll need to leave in less than an hour.”_

‘Oh, right… well I suppose I better…’

_“I believe the word you’re looking for is ‘shower’.”_

‘Did I ever tell you how much I hate it when you’re a cocky git?’

_“Many times.”_

‘Obviously not enough.’

* * *

 

La Tasca was busy. The food was delicious. Sarah looked wonderful, and was sporting a small, but very beautiful, diamond ring.

“Congratulations! Mark I presume?”

“Yeah, I can’t say it was a shock when he asked. He’s never good at keeping secrets.”

“Have you set a date yet?”

“No. Not yet, but we’re thinking May next year. Anyway enough about me; I’m so pleased you’re going to come back, and as I said I’ll speak to Jess to see if we can arrange a more permanent position for you. I’m a bit surprised you’re interested in committing to us; I told you when you first applied you were over-qualified, surely you can find a better paid job elsewhere?”

“Probably, but I don’t want anything too big just yet. I know the clinic and I like working there. I just want to remove as much stress as possible from my life at the moment.”

“Ah… I see.” Sarah shuffled uncomfortably in her chair before continuing. “I’m really sorry about the Sherlock thing John. If it’s any consolation I don’t believe he was a fake.”

That made John smile, “Really?”

“I don’t know how to explain it… but… Well let’s just say no one’s _that_ good at feigning being an insufferable twit most of the time.” She laughed, “I’m sorry that sounds cruel, but he never seemed to make an effort to get along with people he didn’t need to get along with, which included me. “ John joined in with the giggling as he remembered what he’d said to Sherlock when he thought John was starting to doubt him: ‘Complete dick’, and ‘insufferable twit’ – close enough!

John trusted Sarah, Sarah trusted John, and he knew she hadn’t lied to him about her opinion of Sherlock’s innocence. Being wary of a few confidential details, John told her about the case so far. It felt good to tell someone as though it was a story, Sarah had proved her intelligence and observance skills in the past, but John wasn’t telling her to make her help, it was just nice to share his recent endeavours with someone. He really did miss writing his blog, not that he’d tell Ella of course.

At the end of the meal they split the bill and agreed to share a cab to Sarah’s, afterwards it was only a fifteen minute walk for John back to Baker Street. As they pulled up outside her building Sarah suddenly gasped and grabbed hold of John’s arm.

“Oh no! What have you forgotten, don’t tell me it’s your keys?”

“No! No it’s not that! Oh John I almost forgot!”

“What?”

“The day before yesterday at the clinic… what if it’s linked?”

“Sarah, what is it?”

Sarah looked into his eyes and stared at him for a few seconds before inhaling a deep breath. “We received some calls. Strange calls about 6 or 7 in 2 hours, we tried to trace them, but they were all public call boxes. Each caller was in a different part of London, and each one sounded different, but they all had the same message. _‘John Watson is not alone’_.”

“I am not alone?”

“Yeh, bizarre I know. I meant to mention it at dinner! It’s funny, but I think it’s sort of similar to those ‘notes’ you and Molly received. It’s almost like the city itself is trying to communicate with you.”

“The city… Sarah you’re amazing!” Before he could stop himself, John kissed Sarah squarely on the lips before dashing off into the middle of London.

 

They were his eyes and ears all over the city… and now they were his voice too.


	21. The Homeless Network

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John receives a present from the Homeless network.

As John ran through London he felt his Mind Field surface. Everywhere he looked there were people, there were souls, without uniform, hiding, scavenging, helping, _and surviving_ in the field. They were void of armour, of protection, but they didn’t need or want it, they remained unseen, and therefore untargeted. It suddenly dawned on John that they had probably always been there, not just in his Mind Field but in real life too. He had only ever _noticed_ Sherlock use the network two or three times, but that didn’t mean they weren’t used more often. Sherlock would have had to use them fairly regularly to keep them loyal and faithful to him, and also so eager to help whenever they were needed.

As he spun around the corner of Baker Street John slowed down to a walk. He reached into his jeans’ pocket to retrieve his wallet. He simultaneously pulled out a ten-pound note and the small piece of paper that read “I Believe In Sherlock Holmes”. He quickly grabbed a pen out of his jacket and flipped the paper over, leaning against a building as he scribbled his own message on the blank side. When he was done he carefully rolled it up in the tenner and walked over to 221B.

At first he idly walked past the young man begging outside ‘Speedy’s Café’ as he always had done. He then paused and discretely stepped backwards so that he was directly in front of the man, before leaning down slowly and slipping the money into his jangling mug.

“That’s very kind of you sir.” The man smiled with crooked teeth.

John nodded and strode up to 221B without uttering a word. As he pretended to look for his keys he kept on glancing down at the man as he inspected the money in his hole-ridden glove-clad hands. A smile formed on John’s lips despite himself when he saw the beggar’s eyes widened as he read John’s message:

**_John Watson knows you’re not invisible, and he needs your help._ **

John returned to looking for his keys, and heard some scuffling as the man scrambled to his feet and stumbled over to John. Out of the corner of his eye John noticed his hand had entered his thin coat’s pocket. Before the alarm could rise and inspire him to act, a hand grabbed John’s arm and an object was pressed firmly into his hand.

The hands on his body did not move and John slowly moved his head to meet the young man’s eyes. They were compassionate and serious. “Thank you John. We’ll be here whenever you need us. He trusts you therefore so do we. We’ve kept an eye on him and we’ll do the same for you. In fact,” he paused, and glanced around as if to make sure no one was eavesdropping on their conversation, “we saw _you_ search and find this item out of a skip two streets away from Miss. Riley’s house this morning.” He gave John a wink and then hobbled back to his position on the street, occasionally shaking his mug of coins as he asked passers-by for money.

John stood staring at him for several moments before whispering “Thank you” and finally entering the building. He closed the door behind him and leant back against it, closing his eyes as he contemplated the strange conversation he’d just had. A heavy weight in his hand reminded him about the random object he’d been given, and he brought it up into the dim light of the hallway so he could see what it was. It was a purple Blackberry. It was _Kitty Riley’s_ purple Blackberry.

John laughed. Without thinking he flipped the phone into the air with joy, and almost dropping it in the process. John coughed slightly and quickly darted his eyes around the stairs to ensure Mrs. Hudson hadn’t witnessed his fumble. Luckily she was no-where to be seen. Before he could damage the precious phone he quickly slid it into his pocket and charged up the stairs.

Once inside the flat and armed with a cup of tea, John sat down in his armchair and got out the Blackberry. He twirled it around until he found the ‘on’ button. As the phone started up, John felt a surge of panic rise up within him. _What if the phone had a password_?

‘Please don’t have a password… Please don’t have a password… Please don…’

He breathed a sigh of relief as the homepage lit up on the screen, it wasn’t password protected.

_“Even if it had been, you’d have figured it out John.”_

‘I’d rather not have had to test that theory.’

 _“…Would’ve been obvious.”_ The words were faint and mumbled. John pushed aside the giggle and began looking through Kitty’s phone. All of her messages were deleted besides two conversations. The most recent was between her and Sophie, and was the conversation John had already read earlier that day, plus some extra messages Sophie has sent that morning when Kitty hadn’t turned up for work, he quickly scanned through to make sure Sophie had not left any messages or words out of the transcript, but it seemed to be identical. He moved onto the second conversation, which was dated the day after Sherlock’s death with a contact called ‘James M’:

James: Why didn’t you tell him the code?  
Kitty: He wouldn’t have believed me. You could have told him.  
James: No! It had to be you. You were the only one who knew. You were the only one He told.  
Kitty: Don’t you dare try to make me feel guilty! It’s his own fault anyway, and he deserved it.  
James: Who appointed you God?  
Kitty: You did, when you asked too much of me. I want to have nothing more to do with this.  
James: Don’t worry, you won’t.

John re-read the conversation several times. It was a huge contrast to the light-hearted banter she’d shared with Sophie, and why hadn’t this message been deleted like all the others? Had Kitty been keeping it as some sort of proof? It also made no sense, the only ‘code’ John remembered surrounding the case was the one Moriarty allegedly used to break into all those places, why would Kitty have be told that?

John exited the messages and quickly searched for her contacts list. When he found it he immediately looked at the number filed under ‘James M’, it was the same as the one being used to text Sherlock’s phone under Jim Moriarty’s name. He supposed it was some sort of proof that Kitty was aware that Moriarty was real, even though the M didn’t clarify anything. John began searching through the rest of her contacts, stumbling upon ‘Richard Brooke’ in the process.

Without thinking John immediately pressed ‘Call’. His hands shook as her brought the phone to his ear. The dial tone was followed by the annoying automatic message “I’m sorry, but this person’s phone is switched off. Please try agai…” John pushed the end-call button in exasperation. What had he really expected?

Annoyed with himself, he continued browsing through Kitty’s contacts. He was nearing the end when one name made him pause: ‘Tessa Wilde’. John tried to think back to when he might have heard the name before but before he could delve too far into faded memories his Mind Field roared to life. A young female soldier was leading him briskly through the campsite until they reached Kitty Riley’s tent. Pushing through the rest of the troops gathered in there she made a beeline for the whiteboard in the centre of the tent, the one with the highlighted dates from Kitty’s diary. The soldier picked up a pen and circled a Saturday, which encompassed the words “Ring TW”. Understanding dawned immediately and John brought himself out of the Mind Field and quickly checked to make sure there were no more people in her contact list with those initials. There weren’t.

John took a deep breath, and pressed ‘call’. After a few seconds of agonising silence the phone started to ring. One… Two… Three… Four… Fiv…

_Static_

“Um…Hello? Is this Tessa Wilde?”

A pause. John was about to put the phone down before a deep smooth voice stopped him.

“Hello John.” He froze. “It’s been a long time hasn’t it?”

“You?” he breathed.

“Let’s have dinner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think I'm revealing too much when I say that this is the point where things will start to get really interesting.


	22. The Return of Miss Scarlet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for some answers. Guess who's back?!

“Let’s have dinner.”

TW  
Tessa Wilde  
 _The Woman  
_ ** _Irene Adler_**

It took John a matter of seconds to get over his initial shock, “You’re not dead then?”

He heard a faint, amused snort. “No. Are you going to come after me?”

He scowled at the reference. “Maybe.”

“Well make your mind up Dr. Watson. What about my offer of dinner?”

“I’m not hungry.” He smirked.

“Oh Doctor, of course you are. Besides I’ve got your favourite.”

“What’s that then?”

“Answers.” There was a click and then silence.

John wasted no time in gathering his own and Sherlock’s phone, his notepad and pen, and his gun, which he concealed in the back of his jeans again. He had briefly thought about ignoring her. He could have not gone downstairs and waited for the trademark black car to pull up outside 211B for him. The car would’ve arrived however, and it would have waited. It would have waited for as long as was needed for John to break. He would’ve caved eventually; Irene had known exactly which buttons she needed to press. For Sherlock it had been the promise of a grand mystery, and for John it was the hope of answers. He would have gotten into the car sooner or later, so why prolong the inevitable?

As he closed the black door to 221B the predictable Jaguar coasted to a stop. He smiled briefly before opening the door and getting in. Irene was not in the car, he hadn’t really expected her to be. It was just John and the driver. As the car pulled away from Baker Street, John kept his gaze fixed firmly out of the window, trying to track the car’s root through the city. After one too many turns however, John found himself looking at unfamiliar streets and buildings, so he stopped and sat back in defeat, letting himself be lead to goodness knows where in relative comfort.

After several minutes the car stopped abruptly. The driver didn’t get out or even turn off the ignition. “We’re here. You can get out now.” His voice was deep and gruff. John couldn’t see much of his face, but he didn’t seem to be as old as he sounded. ‘Smoker.’ He inadvertently smiled at the thought that Sherlock would have remarked on the effectiveness of nicotine patches as he exited the car.

John just smiled politely and said “Thank You.” He got out and closed the door behind him. The car drove on immediately, leaving him in a deserted street. In front of him was a block of flats. Nothing peculiar struck John about them initially, until he noticed the eldritch darkness making them stand out against all the other buildings in the street. There were no lights on. No one lived here.

John walked up to the main door. The late night’s air had a chilly bite to it, but at least there was no rain. The door was locked and John could barely see the intercom panel via the light of a nearby street lamp. There were no names, just a number on each individual round button. Though none of them looked like they’d been used, one of the numbers was slightly more faded than the others, and the button appeared less stiff. John pressed it.

After a brief pause there was a sharp buzz and the door swung free.

_“Lucky guess.”_

‘Excellent deduction.’ John corrected.

_“Hah! You wish.”_

In the building, John spotted a small lift, but it didn’t appear to be functioning. John decided to go straight for the broad staircase with red carpet. Including the ground floor, the building had only three storeys, and flat 21 was likely to be on the top floor. As John began the climb of the two flights he examined his surroundings in the dim emergency lighting. Despite the low lighting creating eerie shadows and shapes, the building seemed to be in relatively good condition. There was no damp clinging to the walls, nor any obvious marks, scratches, or cracks in the paint. The carpet wasn’t sticky under his feet and there were no unpleasant smells. The generally good state of the structure actually unnerved John, as his initial instinct had been that it was abandoned. He didn’t pull out his gun, but he kept his eyes and ears alert; primed for anything that could cause alarm.

He reached the second floor without any issues and he pulled out his gun. He approached Flat 21 slowly. He raised his hand to knock, before lowering it again and reaching for the handle. The room wasn’t lit but an outside street lamp cast an orange glow through a large window to John’s left. The room was unfurnished, completely bare, but the change in flooring and built-in counters indicated it had been designed to be some sort of combined kitchen and living room. Other than the door in which he had entered there were only two other doors leaving the room, he guessed at least one was a bedroom, the other was possibly a bathroom, unless the bedroom had an en-suite. Before he could examine the room further, movement behind one of the doors grabbed his attention. He raised his gun and pointed it firmly at the door. He waited.

Irene emerged, her hair flowing delicately around her shoulders. Her clothes were those of a simple office worker; plain black trousers, a white blouse and small heels. Though the light was poor, John could see her face was defined by minimalistic make-up. Though her attire was not the most intimidating outfit John had seen her wear, her knowing smile, her confident stance and the mischievous glint in her eyes reminded John of her capabilities. He did not lower the gun.

Irene nodded towards the gun in his hand, “Is _that_ any way to great an old friend?”

John’s hands didn’t move. “One that is supposed to be dead? I think it’s appropriate for now.” Irene smiled. “Who’s the texter?”

“I’m sorry?”

“The person texting Sherlock, Molly, and even Kitty Riley under the name Jim Moriarty, who is it? I know it’s not him and you promised me answers.”

She laughed. “You really think I’m just going to _tell_ you who the they are?”

John’s eyes twitched, the gun was still trained at Irene. “It’s not you?” He knew the answer to that, but he had to ask.

Her features softened slightly. “No. It’s a friend.”

“Of mine, or yours?”

Her lips twitched slightly. “Why not both?”

“STOP IT IRENE!” John stepped forward in anger, and flourished the gun in a threat. Irene didn’t move, but her eyes widened slightly, she hadn’t expected him to loose control so quickly. “I’m so _sick_ of this game! You promised me answers, and I’m tired of blindly following this breadcrumb trail. Nothing makes sense anymore! You shouldn’t even be alive!” Irene stared at him blankly, but remained silent. She wasn’t smirking anymore, her features had fallen slightly and she almost looked _tired_. John finally lowered the gun, and calmed himself down. “How did he do it?”

“Who…?”

“Sherlock. How did he save you?”

“I…uh…”

“I’m not stupid Irene. He was the only one who could have done it.” John lowered his voice, it was barely a whisper but Irene still heard it, “…he didn’t even tell me. He told me everything.”

“John… It doesn’t matter. Yes, he saved me, but it really doesn’t matter how. I am now trying to repay the favour.”

John couldn’t look at her. “You’re too late.”

“I tried, and I am still trying, I wouldn’t be here otherwise”

John sighed in resignation. He put his gun back into his jeans. “Who are you Irene?”

She shrugged “I don’t know. Someone who’s bad and is trying to be good?”

“Aren’t we all?” They both smiled. “As I said, you promised me answers.” His eyes were pleading. “Please?”

“I’ll answer what I can, I assure you.”

“Thank you. Is Moriarty directly behind Sherlock’s death?”

“Yes.”

“Do you work for Moriarty?”

“I used to.”

“Used to? He let you go?”

“When he found out I was alive he threatened to inform not only the terrorist cells, but a certain Mr. Holmes in the British Government. I couldn’t leave even if I’d wanted to.”

“Then why are you no longer working for him”

Irene struggled not to break into a huge smile. “He’s dead.”

“What? How?”

“He killed himself.”

“Why?”

“How else was he going to make Sherlock Holmes jump off a building?”

John’s jaw dropped and he felt sick. “What do you mean?”

Irene stepped towards John and raised her hands to his arms, as thought he might fall backwards. “That day? There were snipers John. You were the target, as well as Greg Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. The only thing that could save you was Sherlock jumping or…”

“… or Moriarty calling them off.” John finished.

Irene nodded. “He saved you John. I’m so sorry.”

John’s head was swimming. He grasped Irene tightly and felt tears swell. He fought them off for several minutes, taking deep breaths as he tried to contemplate this new information.

‘You died to save me. You selfless bastard.’

_“You’re welcome.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief note about this chapter (Britpick time): I know some of my readers are American, and I notice this every time I visit the States: What we call the ground floor is called the first floor in the States. Our first floor is the second storey to a building. I know this seems a bit petty to mention, but it does confuse me when I go and I have heard other people (both British and American) comment on the difference. So incase you were wondering why John goes to the second floor in a three storey building, it is actually the top floor. Sorry if this bored you, or confused you even more, but I thought I should mention it!
> 
> I'll go into detail about Moriarty's death a bit in the next chapter, and I may reveal a twist or two ;)


	23. The Target

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Irene discuss Moriarty's death, and John has an epiphany.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably my favourite chapter, I really hope you enjoy it :D

“I want proof.”

“It’s on its way.”

“What are you…?”

***BEEP***

John reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved Sherlock’s phone. It was receiving a string of picture messages from ‘The Texter’. Each one showed Moriarty sprawled out on a concrete floor, St. Bart’s rooftop, a gun in one hand and blood behind his head. One showed the bullet wound in the back of his crown, and another the inside of his mouth where the bullet had entered.

“Where is the body now?”

“Well we couldn’t exactly hold a funeral service could we?”

“So where is it?”

“Incinerated.” Irene shuffled her weight from one foot to the other and crossed her arms. “Did you hear about that hostel fire in Liverpool last month?”

“I read about it yes. There were over one hundred homeless people seeking shelter inside it when it caught fire. They died in their beds. Authorities believe it to have been accidental.” He paused. “I’m guessing not?”

“Well…no.” Irene smiled. “It was Jim’s last case. It was simple and easily done, but it proved to be incredibly useful.”

“Case? He did it for a _client_?”

“Of course. The building was old and falling to pieces, but it could not be pulled down because it was under National protection. The mayor of Liverpool contacted Jim and requested him to organise its destruction in such a way as would not arouse suspicion. In fact, he took inspiration from an old _government_ scheme he’d help ruin. He arranged to fill the hostel with bodies of homeless people who were already dead before it was burned, including his own. I believe there are already plans to build a newer and better hostel on the site. It was killing two birds with one stone: it helped the city cater for more of the people living on its streets, by burning the bodies of those who had already died and were in need of appropriate disposal. They are two problems every major city faces.”

John couldn’t believe what he was hearing and gave a faint laugh in dismay. “That was almost humane of him.”

“He was a consultant _criminal_. Everything he did was against the law. Who’s to say though that it always had to be immoral?”

John snorted. “I’d have liked to have seen you say that to me after he tried to blow me up.”

Irene laughed and nodded her head in amused agreement. “You should be thanking me about that you know?”

Realisation struck. “It was you on the phone?”

She nodded. “‘The Night Royalty Submitted’, as I like to call it.”

“I see.” John paused for a moment and thought about this new information. “What would have happened if you hadn’t called him?”

“You know as well as I do. Sherlock would have pulled the trigger. The pool would have exploded.”

“We’d have all died. Including Moriarty.” John paused again. “He always intended to die, didn’t he?” Again, Irene nodded. “And take Sherlock with him?”

“Of course.”

‘Selfish git.’ John thought. He glanced around the empty room again, and suddenly felt quite weary. “I don’t suppose you have anywhere to sit down?”

Irene jerked her head backwards, indicating the room from which she’d entered. “Just beds I’m afraid.”

“Beds? Where exactly are we?” John asked, confused. Irene led him into the bedroom as she explained.

“This was one of Jim’s many bases in London. It was originally designed to accommodate university students during the term. Near the end of the building process however, the builders ran into a spot of trouble.” The room had two single beds separated by a chest of draws and two bedside tables. There was a large desk and built in wardrobe along the opposite wall, but no chair. Irene sat down on one of the beds, and John sat on the other, facing her. Both mattresses were covered with dark fitted sheets and had a single pillow at the head; they didn’t have duvets or blankets. “They were unable to connect the building to the mains electricity for some _unknown_ reason. They tried several times but couldn’t solve the problem, and more attempts would be too expensive. The owner gave up the project and decided to sell. Jim bought it for a very reasonable price under the guise of a successful businessman investing in a future project.

“It’s an excellent place for his sort of work; it has no address and no phone line. It is virtually undetectable and yet no-one would bat an eyelid if they happened to see people entering or leaving it.”

“So people actually _live_ here?”

“No, of course not. Electricity is too important nowadays for anyone to live in relative comfort without it. Some flats contain travel hobs, cookers and other battery powered electrical devices in case someone needs to stay for a few days. Otherwise the building is used mainly for meetings and planning.”

“What about the buzzer for the intercom?”

“A battery power is fitted to only the one. Surely you noticed that it was the only one that worked.”

“It was the only one I tried.”

“Really? I’m impressed.”

“So am I. If Moriarty hadn’t been such a prick, and of course not dead, I might have congratulated him on this place.” He said, examining the room.

“As I said before; it’s one of many.”

“He really did have everything planned out didn’t he?”

“Yep. Remind me to add ‘OCD’ to his list of amicable traits.”

John raised is eyebrows in humour and then almost immediately lowered them again. “Hang on. If Moriarty had planned this all along: to die and kill Sherlock at the same time, why did _you_ calling him about, well you-know-what, change his mind?”

“Ah, well you see, though he didn’t particularly like Sherlock, he was never the main target for Jim.”

“He wasn’t?”

She shook her head. “No. In fact, even though he was responsible for stopping several of Jim’s schemes, the only reason Jim decided to kill him was because he didn’t give Mycroft the memory stick.”

“WHAT?! _Mycroft_ was the target?”

“Yes; not to be killed though. To be ruined. Mycroft was, or still is, as intelligent as both Sherlock and Jim were combined. Though Jim always claimed Sherlock was wasting his talents helping you lot, at least he was _using_ them. Mycroft may be one of the most highly paid individuals in the British government, but his work is rather trivial; it doesn’t challenge him. A job like his would have driven Jim, and Sherlock, mad with boredom. Jim couldn’t contemplate how Mycroft could be so content to leave his skills unused.”

“So he planned to ruin him? Just like that?”

“Well…yes. Strip away his luxurious lifestyle and Mycroft might have become interesting. Anyway, Jim’s plan had been for Sherlock to return the memory stick to Mycroft immediately. He already had the missile plans via other means. As soon as Mycroft had the stick back and thought it was safe, he intended to leak the information. In the resulting investigation authorities would have discovered the memory stick in Mycroft’s possession, and know that something had gone wrong. The finger would be pointed, and Mycroft would be blamed. If he didn’t loose his job completely he would have at least lost a tonne of respect from his colleagues. He’d have had to fight to repair the damage, or risk falling completely.”

“And how did this then lead onto the completely _logical_ decision to kill Sherlock and _myself_?”

“Sherlock was the next best thing, and you were the only way to get through to him. Plus, there was a chance that Mycroft might’ve felt guilty at your deaths; not as effective as the original plan but it would’ve been a start.”

“And your phone call…?”

“Well you know why that changed his mind. Another chance to destroy Mycroft, and Sherlock too.” Irene paused and rubbed her mouth in thought. “I turned out to be the weak link in the end. The plan would’ve succeeded if I hadn’t let my stupid heart rule my head.”

“I see…” John quietly studied Irene from the opposite bed. She kept her eyes fixed to the floor, like a little girl who’d just been told off. She was ashamed; of letting Moriarty down or just falling for Sherlock, John wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter now, and he had more important things on his mind. “Why was I suddenly no longer a target?”

Irene looked up suddenly and smirked slightly. “Because Jim _liked_ you. The sniper at the pool had been given specific instructions to fire immediately if Sherlock tried anything funny. Moriarty never suspected that you would make the sacrificial play. The sniper should have fired instantly but hesitated. Moriarty gave him the signal to wait, to see what you’d do next. I guess you owe your life to that man; he could have shot, and he should have done, but he didn’t. After that Jim took a sort of shine to you, and thought Sherlock didn’t credit you enough…”

Irene kept talking but John had tuned out. An explosion in his Mind Field drew him away from reality. He had no idea what the trigger had been. All he could see were terrified soldiers running towards the Campsite from the main field. He noticed the nametags of; “Observant”, “Linked to JM”, “Known by Sherlock”, “Knowledge of my gun” run by. At first they seemed to be heading to Mycroft’s tent, but then they diverted at the last minute to another.

“Oh my God!” John interrupted Irene and stood up. “The sniper was Moran wasn’t it? Sebastian Moran?”

Irene looked bewildered. “How did you…?” John ran out of the room. “Hey! Where’re you going?”

“I need to send a text.”


	24. The Texter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short bit where John discovers who the texter is, and demands some answers.

_“Hello Moran.”_

A Pause.

_“Captain.”_

_“I think we should talk.”_

_“The car.”_

Without saying goodbye to Irene, John had left Flat 21 and was already galloping down the stairs. He exited the building and found the black car from earlier, patiently waiting for him. Ignoring the back doors, he entered the car and slid into the passenger’s seat. He shut the door and the car pulled away.

“Evening.” The gruff voice spoke first.

It was dark, and John could only see the man’s face next to him fleetingly when they passed a streetlamp. The driver had think stubble, and longer hair than when John had seen him previously. His eyes however, though slightly lined around the edges, were as alert and bright as they had been in Afghanistan.

“How’s the Shoulder?”

John realised he had yet to speak. “It’s fine thanks. How’s the leg?”

Moran did not speak. He removed his right hand from the steering wheel and reached down. He lightly tapped his leg, but still hard enough so that John could hear the faint metallic clink in the otherwise silent car. He had a prosthetic limb. He returned his hand to the wheel, satisfied that John did not require him to explain further.

A minute or so of uncomfortable silence passed. John was drumming his fingers unconsciously on his leg as he watched the car glide from street to street.

“Where are we going?” He finally asked.

“To a coffee shop. I know one that is open twenty-four seven. It’s very handy.”

“A coffee shop?” Moran nodded. “A public place?” He nodded again. “Is that…um…wise?”

“People there at 3 o’clock in the morning will be worrying too much about their own conversations being overheard, to bother to try and listen in on anyone else’s. Plus, you need some caffeine.”

John turned his head sharply and glared at Sebastian for a few moments. He did feel weary, and his body was craving rest. Part of his mind had already begun prodding at him, reminding him that it had been awake for far too long. He was too immersed in all of the new information he’d received that day to listen to it though. He was beginning to understand why Sherlock had never slept whilst in the middle of a case. It hadn’t been a choice, rather a need. John knew that he would stay awake now regardless, but he couldn’t deny that a cup of coffee would help ease the battle with his subconscious. Despite all of this, part of him was slightly angry at Moran’s comment. It made him feel weak. He didn’t need to be taken care of, particularly by a stranger.

Moran was keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the road, so was apparently oblivious to John’s heated gaze. “What makes you think I need caffeine?” John asked sharply, turning his eyes back to facing ahead. “I’m fine.” He silently cursed himself; he sounded like a stroppy child.

“I’m sorry John, but you’ve just abandoned Irene without even saying goodbye…”

“How…?”

“ _Never mind_ ‘how’. You have also just climbed willingly into the front of a car with the man who you knew was; A) an ex-soldier, and therefore military trained, B) probably working for one James Moriarty, and C) the man behind a little red spot in a very memorable swimming pool.”

John kept his eyes fixed ahead stubbornly, his jaw was set firm, gritting his teeth, and his fists were clenching at his sides. The only things to betray his fear were the hairs on the back of his neck. He opened his mouth to protest.

“ _And_ ,” Sebastian interrupted, “if all of that doesn’t convince you that you are a little bit weary, and not thinking entirely straight, I will ask you one, no _two_ , simple questions.” He parked up next to a pavement and switched off the car’s engine. He turned his head, fixing his gaze on John for the first time. He was calm and emotionless; a soldier. “Where is your gun? And why is it not pointed in my face?”

John froze.

His gun.

Fuck.

He had left it on the bed when he was talking to Irene.

He frantically did a pat search of his body to ensure he hadn’t, by some miracle, picked it up.

He hadn’t.

John faced Moran, eyes wide and pleading in fear. “Go back.”

Sebastian tilted his head and lifted his eyebrows. “Yeah, right!” As he turned around to get out of the car John reached over and put a firm hand on his elbow.

“Please.” His voice cracked.

Sebastian turned back, looking at the hand on his arm. John retracted it quickly, feeling embarrassed. Moran sighed and leaned forward to place his own hand on John’s shoulder, shaking it slightly in reassurance. “You should know by now that I have no intention of harming you. Irene will make sure the gun is returned to you as soon as possible.” He flicked his head back, indicating a small shop next to where the car was parked behind him. “Now though; coffee.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is short, more will be up soon.


	25. The Life we Choose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Questions are asked, most are answered, and some coffee is drunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian Moran is a character we have yet to see in the actual show, though there are already loads of speculations as to his involvement within the current plots. This is my own take on it.

John held his coffee in his hands, allowing the warmth to seep through to his fingers before he indulged in the first sip. It was hot, bitter and perfect. The only other people in the shop were two students, who were huddled over their notes and laptops, writing and typing frantically as though their lives depended on it, and three gentlemen in their late thirties, engrossed in a hurried and hushed conversation in the corner.

John and Sebastian were sat at a table next to the window. When they had walked in Moran had waved at the man behind the counter, then signalled for two coffees. They had been made and brought over without a single word being exchanged, and no receipt accompanied them.

John took another sip of his coffee, realising too late that it would have been the perfect opportunity for someone to poison him. He mentally slapped himself for not being more on guard. Again.

_"Trust him."_

'It's not that simple.'

_"You drank the coffee and you're not dead; simple."_

'Oh, very funny. He still worked for Moriarty, who encase you'd forgotten, was responsible for your death.'

_"I know that! I told Molly to trust him remember? Just listen to him."_

John stared at his coffee. He didn't know how to start. In the end it was Sebastian who broke the silence. "I never got to thank you."

John went rigid. His newly discovered memories of Afghanistan flooded his mind once more. He never took his eyes away from the black liquid, steaming in the plain white mug. After a few intense seconds, he shook his head and mumbled under his breath, "I was just doing my job…"

"I know, but it was still my life. So thank you."

John lifted his head and gave a small smile. "What happened to you? You know… after?"

Sebastian's lips twitched. "Do you mean how did I end up getting involved with the joyous Moriarty?"

John opened his mouth and raised his eyebrows, pretending to think. He then slightly pursed his lips and nodded. Sebastian laughed and took a quick sip of his own coffee.

"Very subtle" He winked.

"Thanks." They both burst into laughter. John relaxed into his chair and clutched his mug again. "So?"

"Well, like you I was sent home after my leg was amputated. The NHS gave me a crutch and sent me on my way. I tried to find work, but the only jobs I was qualified for and fit enough to do involved sitting on my backside all day." He shook his head, and his tone became slightly darker as he continued. "I couldn't do that, there was no way.

"My parents were poor, they couldn't support me, and I can't say that returning to live at home was a pleasant prospect anyway. I scraped by on the Army Pension for a little while; you know how shit that is. A good friend of mine, Jack, helped out a lot. He let me live with him for a while, allowing me to contribute to rent, bills and food only as much as I could afford." Sebastian paused and took a large swig of his coffee, grimacing slightly as he set the mug back down on the table. He didn't release the handle and John could see his knuckles turn white.

"A few months into our arrangement, Jack his girlfriend Jill, I know – they never heard the end of it, and I were walking back late one night after going to the cinema. Five dick-heads ambushed us. They stole Jill's handbag and started beating Jack up. They knocked away my crutch and wrestled me to the ground. I was still quite strong but I was out of practice. One of them came over to me and started searching my body for my phone and wallet. He got them, but he didn't notice me slip a gun out of his jacket. It was an armed forces pistol, probably stolen. I didn't care."

Sebastian downed the rest of his coffee. "Now, I might have lost a leg in that fucking shit-hole of a dessert, but my arms and eyes were as good as ever. I rather pride myself at having awesome aim with most firearms. I fired the gun. I missed them on purpose, but the bullets were close, all I wanted to do was scare them. They bolted."

Another coffee arrived and Moran's empty cup was taken away. He nodded his thanks and took a small sip from the new mug, blowing on it slightly first. "Jack was in pain, I could hear him but couldn't get up. I had no idea where my crutch was, and I had no mobile. I couldn't hear nor see Jill, I presumed, well hoped, she'd been knocked unconscious."

His hands began to shake slightly and he put down his mug so that he didn't spill the hot liquid. "The fuzz arrived finally, along with the ambulance. Jill was ok, just a mild concussion. Jack wasn't." He blinked back threatening tears. "Those bastards had stabbed him, he was completely helpless and they'd pulled a knife on him.

"I was initially arrested for being in possession of the illegal firearm. As soon as Jill was awake and they'd looked over the CCTV footage of the incident, I was released without any charges." His hands stopped shaking and he raised his head slowly. John didn't say a word and tried to stop his face from displaying too much sympathy. He knew Sebastian didn't want pity. "Jack didn't make it. Jill couldn't look at me without crying. She blamed me; hell, I blamed myself! There was no way to tell from the footage whether they'd knifed him before or after I'd started shooting. I sincerely doubt though, that they would have been stupid enough to stab him before.

"I got out of that flat before Jill returned from the hospital. She wouldn't want me there, but she was a good-hearted lass and would've let me stay. I don't think she wanted to blame me, but she couldn't help it. I'd caused her enough trouble and she needed friends who were going to support and help her through the grief. All I would have done was remind her constantly about what had happened.

"I decided to pitch myself up in a cheap hotel until I could find somewhere else to live. I was there only two nights before I got a  _visitor_."

John spoke for the first time since Sebastian had started his story. "James Moriarty."

"Bullseye." He paused, and then sat back in his chair. "Well John, you've proved you're by no means stupid. I'm sure you can figure out the rest."

John thought for a moment. "He'd seen the CCTV footage?"

"Uh-huh."

"He liked your aim, researched you and decided you'd be a great asset to him."

"Something like that."

"In return for working for him, you got a prosthetic leg, and  _revenge_  perhaps?"

Moran's face fell. "I was too hot-blooded to care at the time. Moriarty offered me what he knew I wanted, the charming Devil. After that he had me binded to him forevermore. The shit who stabbed Jack was my first hit. The rest weren't harmed but spent a good while afterwards being paranoid as hell." A small smile played at the young man's lips. John reminded himself how dangerous this man was, and was suddenly desperate to feel the protection of his gun against his back. He shuffled in his seat, trying to calm himself again.

"Jim had one condition: Don't ask questions, and questions won't be asked of you. You did whatever job he asked you to do, and he never enquired what you got up to when he didn't need you. I never met anyone else who worked for him, until Irene, and he always communicated via text, email or letters when he needed you. It's lonely work, but I was good at it, and Jim knew that. He used me more and more."

Sebastian finished the rest of his second mug. John blinked at his half-empty mug, abandoned as he became so enthralled with Moran's tale. He downed it in one and scowled at the lukewarm temperature. Both mugs were soon each replaced by another. John was about to turn and say he didn't want another coffee, when the smell of chocolate tickled his nostrils. His new cup contained hot chocolate. The sweet taste fought for dominance in his mouth over the slight bitterness left by the coffee. It wasn't the best he'd ever tasted, but it was far from the worst.

_"I tried!”_

'Yeh, and you failed.'

_"Shut up. You know I'd never made one before. You shouldn't have gotten a cold!"_

'Of course; it's all my fault.'

_"Good, as long as we're agreed on that."_

Sebastian was too busy sipping at his own hot chocolate to notice John's momentary distraction before he continued. "I couldn't exactly say I had a clear conscious, but I was never really shaken until that stupid game. Moriarty brought me in, and I wasn't happy with it from the start – but 'No Questions'. Though I never really knew  _who_  the hit was, I always knew _why_  they were targeted. Be it for the right or wrong reasons, depending on your particular viewpoint, there was always a purpose to a job. This didn't have that; the victims, the people we strapped to explosives, had no connection with anything, they were chosen completely at random. I'd never worked on a 'Holmes' case, as he liked to call them, before and it scared me how ruthless Jim was about it, more so than usual.

"When the first two cases were solved I was relieved. I've never been so happy not to have to pull that trigger before. The third one, the blind woman, seemed to be over too. When I got the command to fire I was so shocked, but I didn't hesitate. I couldn't hesitate."

John's fists clenched slightly. Moran's eyes were cold, his face hard. No guilt, nor regret, just a sad acceptance of his actions.

"My next Job was the pool. Moriarty was so obsessed with the 'Holmes Boys' that he forgot to mention  _you_. 'The pet' was all he called you, but how could I forget the face of the man who saved my life?"

"That's why you hesitated?"

Sebastian nodded. "The old woman; I didn't bat an eyelid. You though? Every instinct told me not to. So I didn't. That could have been my head on the chopping board, lucky for me Mr. _Changeable_ didn't mind. Plus that phone call was a blessing to us all."

"Yeh we owe Irene a lot for that don't we?"

"Yeh we do."

"Why did Moriarty want to die?" Sebastian choked on his drink. "Sebastian, you already know everything Irene told me, but why did he plan to die? As far as I can see his business was just getting started."

"That was the problem. He didn't like being famous. He knew it was only a matter of time before the authorities got to him. He wasn't invincible. He'd been running from a young age. He was still young, but he was tired. I can't justify his actions, just like I can't justify my own. This is the life I have chosen, John. It may not be the right one, but it is my own. I'm happy with it. I don't think he was happy with his."

"And Sherlock?"

"Moriarty is the only man in the world who has to say 'Checkmate' before he knocks his own king over."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"As I said, Moriarty was obsessed. Sherlock had to die too."

"But Mycroft also had to be 'ruined'? Mycroft's fine I saw him a couple of days ago, so why just Sherlock this time."

"It wasn't just Sherlock."

"But Mycroft is…" John stopped as Sebastian reached into his jacket and pulled out a brown envelope. He tossed it across the table, and John put his fingertips onto it to prevent it from sliding off the edge. "What's this?"

Sebastian sipped his chocolate with smug satisfaction. "The thing that's going to ruin Mycroft Holmes."

John opened the envelope and sifted through the photographs. His eyes widened. "No…" He gulped. "This is… no… these are faked!"

"Are you sure about that? Let me just clarify, these are CCTV images, taken moments after the 'Let's talk about Sherlock' conversation he had with Jim. Not as _accidental_ as he'd have you believe."

John studied the pictures again. Dismayed.

Before him was James Moriarty shaking hands, smiling, laughing, and in one photo hugging, Mycroft Holmes.


	26. All it takes is a bit of Persuasion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sebastian talk about Sherlock and Mycroft's relationship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Though this is mainly just talking between Moran and John I hope it isn't too boring, please remember that with my 'version' of Seb he is a lot younger than John.

John threw the pictures down onto the table. “Why? Why would Mycroft _willingly_ help Moriarty?”

Sebastian shrugged. “Sibling rivalry?”

“Please… he and Sherlock weren’t exactly pally, but they were still brothers. Mycroft wouldn’t do this, at least not in his right frame of mind.”

Sebastian drummed his fingers on his mug with one hand and rested his chin on the other. His look was neither mocking nor sympathetic, but it was somewhere in-between. “How much did Sherlock ever tell you about his and Mycroft’s childhood?”

John opened his mouth before the realisation stumped him. Thinking quickly he said, “I never asked him.”

Sebastian raised his eyebrows. “Did you ever ask Mycroft?”

“No. Though he did mention something once about Sherlock wanting to be a Pirate.”

Sebastian smiled. “And what do you think Mycroft wanted to be?”

“Oh I don’t know,” John was starting to get frustrated with the conversation, “Queen?”

Sebastian nodded faintly at the sarcastic comment. “Probably closer than you think.”

John rolled his eyes. “So what? They had a rough childhood, lots of people do.”

“No John, they didn’t have a bad childhood. They had a bloody perfect childhood. Their parents loved them and they loved each other. It was _society_ that twisted them into freaks.”

Without thinking John rose angrily and leant forward. “Don’t you DARE call Sherlock a freak. Ever.”

Sebastian did not flinch or retreat at John’s outburst and kept their eyes locked. He sat up slightly and leaned forward, making their faces uncomfortably close. “So you’ll defend him, but not Mycroft?”

John felt himself retreat automatically. He quickly glanced around the shop, none of the other customers appeared to have noticed their exchange. Avoiding Sebastian’s gaze he sat back down and placed his hands around his mug, focusing on the warmth. “Go on then; enlighten me.” He mumbled. He picked up the photographs again and started studying them. He still didn’t look at Moran.

“To be honest, I know little more than you do. You are already aware that they both have, or had, more than average intelligence, however their knowledge was always _applied_ differently.” John looked up finally. “Mycroft’s analytical, he uses algorithms, already formed equations and facts to deduce answers. Sherlock, on the other hand, was more applied, he concocted experiments and used his creative mind to achieve his goals. Out of the two of them, Sherlock was the one who could ‘act’ normal or ‘pretend’ to be charming if he needed to.”

“Are you trying to tell me that Mycroft was _jealous_ of Sherlock?”

“No, but I am saying that their skills set them down completely different paths.” Sebastian rubbed his lips with a calloused hand, and John made the mental note that he was right handed. “How important do you think Mycroft’s position really is?”

John thought for a moment. “Very?”

“Very.” Moran confirmed. “His predecessor was an orphaned widower with no siblings and no children.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning he wasn’t held back by sentimental family values.” Moran’s voice had risen slightly. John once again yearned to feel the security of his gun, but he also felt a glimmer of triumph rush through him. He had decided to trust Moran, for now, but he didn’t have to like him, and he was starting to think that Sebastian might have a weak spot.

Sebastian cleared his throat and continued, “Mycroft and Sherlock drifted apart as they got older, but they were still ‘ _family_ ’.” Moran practically spat out the word. “Basically whenever his little brother cocked up, Mycroft felt obliged to fix it. Sometimes fixing ‘it’ was pretty expensive.”

“Sherlock repaid him for that. He unlocked Irene’s phone for them.”

“Yes he saved them a small fortune, and they did not have to protect Irene. However that was only one time, he had still ruined the ‘Flight of the Dead’ operation, and Irene’s phone had nothing on it.”

“What?”

“Four pictures, that was it. One of the email and three taken… well you know when.”

“She was bluffing?” John found himself inadvertently smiling.

“Yep. The phone was practically useless.”

“Fantastic.” John said sarcastically.

“I know, but this started long before Irene Adler, and long before you infact.”

“I still don’t understand where you’re going with this.”

“Though Sherlock was a pain in Mycroft’s arse, he never _seriously_ threatened Government security before.” Sebastian smirked. “How was Dartmouth?”

John closed his eyes and groaned. “Shit.” He _knew_ they should have been in more trouble for that.

“Yeah, _acquiring_ his big brother’s ID and then breaking into a Top Secret Military base: NOT Sherlock’s best move. Particularly when the government had other things to worry about at the time.”

John was confused for a brief moment, until the pieces slotted together. “That was when they were questioning Moriarty.”

“I think _interrogate_ is a better verb, but yes.”

“But Mycroft couldn’t have been _that_ angry with us; he granted us access to Baskerville the next day.”

“He had to! I bet the only reason that man is still breathing is because Sherlock solved that case. I think he tried to hide what was going on from Jim, but of course he’d already sort of planned it.”

“Let me guess; Frankland consulted Moriarty to help get more of that gas smuggled from Indiana?”

“Bingo!”

Joh rubbed his eyes, ‘Why is it always tied into that arsehole?’ he still couldn’t process everything he was hearing. “So what happened?”

“Jim told Mycroft that he had a plan to stop Sherlock, which would also result in his own death. All he needed from Mycroft was information and a successor.”

“A successor? Mycroft?”

“Of course. Look, for want of a better phrase; Mycroft was fucked. Thanks to you two his career was as good as over. Moriarty offered him an escape route. He needed a bit of _persuasion_ , but he agreed to it in the end.”

John’s eyes tightened suspiciously. “Persua… Who did you threaten?”

“Sorry?”

“You had the ‘persuade’ Mycroft; a.k.a. _blackmail_ him.” John fought hard not to raise his voice too much. “ _Who_ did you threaten to harm, or kill? Half an hour ago I’d have guessed Sherlock, but since he’s dead and you’re trying to persuade me that _Mycroft_ was actually a part of that, I’m guessing not?”

“It’s true that he doesn’t care for many people, but Mycroft’s still only human. Jim knew his weakness and used it against him. It’s what Jim did.”

“Who?”

“Does it matter?” Sebastian’s voice was suddenly very soft.

“I suppose not.” John picked up the photos again. He wanted to be angry with Mycroft; he ought to feel betrayed. Instead he felt sadness as he looked at the blurry CCTV images, and guilt. ‘I’m so sorry Mycroft.’

_“I’d apologise too, but thanks to him I’m six feet under.”_

John huffed in vague amusement. His eye suddenly blew open wide. “Hang on a minute!” He pointed clumsily at Moran, “You worked for Moriarty, and his successor is Mycroft. Why then are you helping me? Why did you help _Sherlock_? How is _this_ part of Moriarty’s plan.”

“Finally! You’re asking the right questions!”


	27. The Plan to Foil a plan; Foiled.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian's involvement with the Reichenbach fall, and answers to some of the riddles.

John looked at Sebastian expectantly, waiting for an answer.

Exasperated, Sebastian sighed and leant back in his chair. “Think about it for a minute John. Moriarty wanted Sherlock dead, and Mycroft’s reputation ruined; only half of that is true now.”

John pondered for a moment. “It’s also Sherlock whose reputation is ruined.”

“Exactly!” Moran exclaimed. “So where does _me_ helping _you_ change that?”

“You’re helping me prove Sherlock’s innocence…” Realisation dawned. “… and therefore Mycroft’s guilt.” John’s shoulders slumped and he sagged in his chair. He closed his eyes. “Shit.” Sebastian remained quiet as he let the implications of what he’d revealed sink in. “You know what?” John said suddenly, shifting in his seat. “Moriarty was a real fucking arsehole.” He buried his face into his palms and groaned.

Sebastian chuckled slightly. “He was.” He then frowned slightly. “The only genius arsehole I have ever known.”

John quirked an eyebrow. “So you and Sherlock never met then?”

Sebastian smiled. “Touché.”

_“I hope that wasn’t your idea of flattery again.”_

“We did actually.” Moran was still smirking faintly.

“And where did _that_ fall into Moriarty’s big plan?”

Moran sighed and then his grin suddenly turned devilish. “It didn’t.”

“What?” John’s mug froze halfway to his lips.

“Well not exactly.” Moran took a quick sip of his own drink, scowling at the cooling liquid before continuing. “He needed Sherlock to _suspect_ something and leave you a clue. I just took it a step further.”

“You told him everything?” John said in disbelief.

“Yes, well all I knew myself; Jim wasn’t stupid enough to tell me _everything_. Anyway, I text Sherlock when Jim was otherwise _occupied_ ; ‘11am Angelo’s’. Of course he figured out, like you did, that it couldn’t have been Moriarty sending the messages, I don’t know why you’d think that he’d take such a risk anyway, and that was enough to get him to come. Sherlock was very lucky that I meant him no harm – pique his interest and he was all yours!” John bristled slightly at the comment, though he knew it was true. He thought back to when he himself went to St. Bart’s a few days before, blindly following the text with minimal information. Like Sherlock, John’s interest had gotten the better of him, but he’d also rationalised why someone would send him a message like that if they’d intended him harm. Sherlock had probably had a similar thought process before going to Angelo’s.

_“So; correct him!”_

‘No.’

_“Why?”_

‘He thinks he’s got one up on me. I know it’s only a silly comment, but if I correct him he can easily hold back information out of petty spite. Likewise, if he thinks I feel stupid he might reveal more than he intended out of sympathy.’

_“You still don’t trust him.”_

‘Would you in my place.’

_“Probably not.”_

John nodded faintly to himself. “Why though? Why tell Sherlock more than Moriarty wanted you to? _And_ risk Moriarty catching you in the process.”

“Because I thought, well hoped, that if Sherlock knew more than he was supposed to he’d be able to stop it. I didn’t mind working for Jim, but I hated his obsession with Sherlock and Mycroft. I thought he was a decent boss, as decent as a consultant criminal can be anyway, until I saw how he treated Irene after she messed up that job. He practically threw her to that terrorist cell, and when he found out she was alive he forced her to work for him again. I didn’t get a chance to talk to her until we were paired up to blackmail and instruct Lyons for that kidnapping. We were both aware of Moriarty’s intentions and didn’t understand why Sherlock had to die. Sure Sherlock had caused us problems, but he wasn’t in a position of authority or power, and to be honest, we knew his death would cause more problems than it would solve.

“We wanted out. Jim helped Irene and me back onto our feet, for me literally, when we needed him, and I’ll be forever thankful for that. I can never hate Jim, but I’m sick of constantly hiding from the police and living on the edge. He was set on dying, but his plan trapped us in the world he’d created. If Sherlock didn’t die as well, the crap surrounding Moriarty and Mycroft could have been sorted quickly; I’d be far away from here by now. So would Irene, and many others I’m sure.

“That’s why I alerted Sherlock to everything I could. I don’t think he even believed me at first. I told him Moriarty wouldn’t be convicted, and about the code that can ‘hack the whole internet’, which by the way was a fake. I couldn’t confide all the details to him in case Jim’s suspicions were raised. I think he disregarded everything as just a coincidence until that evening at Kitty Reilly’s. I told him to be wary of ‘Rich Brooke’. After that he seemed to trust me.”

John thought back to when he first mentioned the article and ‘Richard Brooke’ to Sherlock. He thought he’d seen a flash of recognition in his friend’s eyes, even though he claimed not to know before they decided to visit Kitty. And then when they’d left, after Moriarty had ‘revealed’ himself Sherlock had acted very strange, very confused. It was all starting to make a bit more sense now.

“He left me, when we left Kitty’s home, he said there was something he had to do. I assumed he’d gone straight to the lab. He went to see you though didn’t he?”

“I was at the lab, so you weren’t one-hundred percent wrong. I was able to tell him about Lyons, Irene, and Mycroft.”

“Ok… so what happened? You’ve been trying to convince me that you and Irene conspired together to ‘save’ Sherlock. Sherlock is dead…” John flinched slightly at the bluntness of his own voice. “What went wrong?”

Sebastian swallowed a lump in his throat. “We trusted the wrong person.”

“Wh…?” John was about to ask before the conversation he read on a certain blackberry flashed across his mind. “ _Kitty_?”

Moran nodded.

“Those texts mentioned a code though, you told me it was a fake.”

“The code Jim had you lot believing could crack the Internet _was_ a fake. There was another one though. One that he’d planted in _Kitty_ ’s apartment instead. It was the signal to call off the snipers.

“Kitty wasn’t supposed to know the truth about Jim, the code had been planted without her knowing, she didn’t know what it could be, other than a number of relevance to ‘Richard’. When we told her the truth she agreed to help and ‘slip’ the code to Sherlock when he visited her. She either changed her mind or hadn’t figured it out. When Sherlock visited me at Bart’s I realised he didn’t have it. I left to search her flat myself and came up empty handed. It was too late.”

Silence fell between them. Slowly, John got Kitty’s Filofax out of his pocket and skimmed through the pages until he found the one he was looking for. “2-4-8-4-2.” He said quietly.

“What?” Moran whispered.

“The Code. Look.” John showed him the week page. “On the 24th she had a ‘Birthday Dinner with Richard’ at 8.00pm at Vertigo 42. 24, 8 and 42; 2-4-8-4-2.”

“I see…” Sebastian looked at John curiously. John was forlorn.

“Sherlock died because Kitty didn’t give him this diary didn’t he?” his voice was quiet. He didn’t want to think about ‘what ifs’, but he couldn’t help himself.

“It looks like it.”

“Is that why she died?” His tone turned slightly accusing.

“Yes and no. She was always going to die according to Jim’s plan. Her death would feed you more bread crumbs. If we had saved Sherlock, I have no doubt her death would have been unnecessary and avoided. Mycroft was the one who ‘organised’ her death. Jim just left enough instructions to make sure mistakes were made in the process without Mycroft’s knowledge – the tag being left on the wine bottle, the folded clothes etcetera.”

John was intrigued, but he still felt uncomfortable with how easy Moran seemed to be discussing it. “She was an innocent woman!”

“She was a journalist.” Moran wasn’t phased by John’s protest.

“So she deserved to die?”

“Maybe not, but in case you haven’t noticed John, I’m an assassin and an ex-soldier. I see lot of people die who don’t deserve it. You’re a doctor I’m sure you have a coping method too. There was a purpose to Kitty’s death, and I will not feel guilty about being a part of it. There was no purpose to Sherlock’s death. Jim wasted resources on something so insignificant; that’s why I tried to save _him_. Him living was more useful than him dead, I can’t say the same holds for Miss. Reilly.”

John couldn’t believe how someone could have such views on life and death, but he could see that playing the guilty card with Moran was not going to be an option. He looked out of the window, and the early morning light had started to bathe the empty London streets.

“So what now?”

Moran contemplated his empty cup before answering. “Well that’s up to you. Since we couldn’t stop Sherlock’s death we resorted back to Moriarty’s original plan. You have in your hands the means to prove Sherlock’s innocence; have the Yard investigate the footage from Moriarty’s interrogation. Mycroft will be arrested and questioned, which will lead to an investigation for more evidence. I suspect he’s not as much of an IT whizz as I am, therefore his internet history will betray his involvement with Kitty’s and, through further investigation, Sherlock’s deaths. He will face criminal charges.

“ _Or_ ; you stay silent. Mycroft will not be imprisoned and Sherlock’s name will forever be slandered.”

John furrowed his eyebrows at the envelope in front of him. “Either way Moriarty wins.”

“Yes. And he’s dead, got to hand it to him.”

John thought carefully for a few minutes, his brain in turmoil. “Whatever I decide, I’m not going to have you as a back up am I.”

Sebastian laughed lightly. “No, Irene and I are planning to go away from England, very far away, as soon as possible. I hope you understand.”

John nodded. “Yes.” He suddenly remembered something else from the case. “One more thing though; it’s probably not important, but what did ‘IOU’ mean?”

Moran smiled again. “That was just Jim playing with Sherlock. I think there were two meanings: 1) Simply that he intended for Sherlock to blow them up at the pool, therefore Jim owed him his own death as well as Sherlock’s, or 2) Since Jim always referred to Sherlock being on the ‘side of the angels’ – the boring side, it was a cryptic way of saying ‘an Angel must fall in order to go all the way to heaven’: ‘I’ is the roman numeral for one, the level of the rooftop; ‘O’ or zero the pavement, sorry to be blunt; and ‘U’ the term used in _second_ person, is heaven, again I’m sorry to be blunt, his death.”

“Ah…”

“Yeh… Silly I know, but that was Jim.”

John didn’t reply; he was fighting back tears. After he managed to control himself he stood up abruptly and held out his hand. “Thank you.” He choked.

Sebastian Moran took his hand, shook it once and nodded. John let go and left the coffee shop without another word. He was clutching the photographs tightly under his arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked my idea for 'IOU' - yay? nay?
> 
> The next Chapter is the biggie! After that there's two shorter sort of epilogues.


	28. D-U-L-L

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft reveals his hand.

John wiped his eyes on his sleeve as he left the shop and quickly found his bearings. He was on the outskirts of the city, miles away from Baker Street. Though he hated to spend the money, it was too far for him to walk the whole way and the tube would take at least an hour from his location, with a couple of necessary changes too. He was really tired now, and just wanted to get home and sleep. Cabs were not as prominent at this time in the morning, but he didn’t have to walk long until he saw one with its light on. He waved it down and got in.

“Baker Street please.” The meter was started and the cab pulled away.

John didn’t remove the pictures out of the envelope during the journey, but he thumbed over them in contemplation. His mind was fried, and he couldn’t string his thoughts together properly. He needed to sleep and let his brain absorb everything he’d learnt before he made a proper decision. He was going to prove Sherlock’s innocence, even if it meant he convicted Mycroft, someone he once considered a friend and ally, in the process; but he needed a plan. He couldn’t reveal Moran and Irene’s involvement with helping him, it would link them too closely to Moriarty, and after all their help he owed them that much. He needed to have Greg investigate the footage of Moriarty’s questioning without raising too much suspicion.

The taxi stopped and John started searching his pocket for his wallet. “How much…” the door next to him had opened and John looked up to find a gloved hand pointing a pistol at his face.

“Out.” John raised his hands and silently cursed to himself. He slowly exited the cab and closed the door behind him. The hand not holding the gun took the brown envelope from John’s own

“Inside.” The barrel was jabbed firmly into his back. John didn’t recognise the voice and he hadn’t managed to get a good look at the man it belonged to. The cab behind him drove away. John looked up at the warehouse in front of him, sighed and then followed the instructions. He entered the fire door in front of him, and his captor followed suit. Inside was a large, empty room, and in the centre was a large metal can. Behind this, leaning on a black umbrella, was Mycroft Holmes.

“Good Morning Doctor Watson.” John was nudged further towards Mycroft, his hands still placed on the back of his head. He glared at him defiantly, and refused to return the greeting. “Long night?”

John grunted.

The man behind him stretched one of his arms over John’s head, the other keeping the gun trained firmly on his back, and held out the photographs. “Ah!” Mycroft exclaimed. He walked around the can until he was stood in front of John. “Thank you. Wouldn’t want _them_ to get into the wrong hands now would we.” He smiled at John, who narrowed his eyes angrily. Mycroft threw the envelope into the can behind him. He turned back to John and held out his hand. “Sherlock’s phone, and Kitty riley’s diary… _please_.” John swallowed, and slowly lowered his right hand and reached into his jacket pocket. He removed Kitty’s Filofax and handed it to Mycroft, who consequently threw it into the can. He returned his right hand before lowering his left hand to his jeans pocket. His own phone was in his jacket, but Mycroft hadn’t asked for that. As he slid his hand in he felt his hand distinguish two objects; Sherlock’s IPhone and Kitty’s Blackberry. Knowing what Mycroft planned to do, John thought quickly; Mycroft didn’t know he had Kitty’s phone too, otherwise he’d have asked for it, and he tried to remember what else he’s seen on the phone that he could use to his advantage. It took John a moment before he realised what else he could use the phone for. He discreetly slid the phone up his Jacket sleeve and removed Sherlock’s phone. He handed it to Mycroft and returned his left hand to behind his head, the weight of the other phone resting against his wrist. Mycroft regarded the phone in his hands. He showed the screen to John, the background was still Bluebell the rabbit.

“What’s the pass-code?” John scrunched his eyebrows in confusion.

“Sherlock never told me it.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes slightly. “I don’t have time for this Dr. Watson. I know you figured it out, now either tell me what it is, enter it yourself or I shoot you now and get into the phone by other means.”

John couldn’t help but smirk. “Surely if _I_ can figure it out, you can?” The gun was pressed more firmly into his back.

“Now John.”

John locked gazes with Mycroft’s cold eyes. He spat out each letter. “D-U-L-L.”

Mycroft’s lips twitched at the word, but he quickly schooled his face again as he searched through Sherlock’s phone. After a minute or so he frowned and then asked. “Who’s ‘James Moriarty’?”

John feigned surprise. “I thought you two were good _friends_?”

“ _This_ isn’t him though, is it?” He showed John the display of the texts exchanged between him and Sebastian. “You really should learn to delete your text histories John.”

“They didn’t tell me their name.”

“Was it Moran?” John flinched slightly. “Ah… it was. I thought he was dead.” He smiled and held out the phone to the man behind John. “Make sure this is disposed of properly.” The gun left John’s back and he heard footsteps. Mycroft now had the gun and was contemplating it silently. He looked up, sighed and waved the gun nonchalantly towards John’s arms. “No need to keep up appearances John. Just don’t run off ok?” He smiled.

John lowered his arms to his sides and watched Mycroft. He went around to the other side of the can, and whilst he was looking in his pocket for something John moved his hand behind his back, slid down the phone and discreetly started pressing keys. It didn’t take him long and he’d re-hidden the phone as Mycroft produced a box of matches, lit one and dropped it into the can. The fire cast dark shadows over Mycroft’s face and John had to suppress a shiver. He waited several minutes before speaking.

“What’re you doing Mycroft?”

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m destroying evidence.”

“They’ll still be able to get into the security footage at the prison.”

“And they’ll find that the footage has been erased, and that there is now in fact no record of Jim Moriarty ever being held there in the first place.”

John clenched his fists slightly. “Why? Why are you doing this?”

“ _You_ know why. You found out my little _secret_. Did you also know that since Moriarty’s death I’ve been working to remove his web? That I’ve been _trying_ to stop it?”

John closed his eyes and sighed. “You thought that by accepting his offer to replace him you’d be able to work from the inside to destroy his legacy.” He shook his head. “How could you be so _stupid_ Mycroft? This was _Moriarty_! You didn’t think he’d thought about that, that he might have _planned_ for you to think that? He trapped you Mycroft.”

Mycroft scowled at the words. “I was in no position to look at multiple options John. I had to do it.”

“Why, did he threaten you? Blackmail you?”

“Does it matter? He also gave me an opportunity to make things right.”

“What about Sherlock? Was his death worth your _reputation_?”

“Considering he was part of ruining it – yes!”

John felt anger boil. “HE WAS YOUR BROTHER!” His shouts echoed around the empty warehouse, and tears stung in his eyes. The silence that followed was heavy and uncomfortable.

When he finally spoke, Mycroft’s voice was calm. “Yes he was. He was also a pratt, and got far too big-headed. I loved him, and cared about him deeply, but he obviously didn’t have such concerns about me. He continued to simply use me and my position to get him, and you, out of trouble and I was sick and tired of him demeaning me. I am sad about Sherlock’s death, but I do not regret it. It’s time to move on.”

John was almost shaking with anger. “Is that what you want me to do? ‘Move on’?”

“No.” Mycroft whispered. Suddenly the gun was directly in front of John’s face. “I’m sorry John, all the evidence has been deleted, other than _you_. You know too much.”

Panic rose in John’s chest, but he tried to remain calm. “Kill me and you’ll have the Yard on your tail, you know that.”

“Why would they suspect me, have you told any of them?” John thought for a moment. He had, he’d told Molly he no longer trusted Mycroft. He shook his head slightly and lowered his eyes; he couldn’t endanger Molly just to stall Mycroft’s trigger. “No.”

Mycroft nodded once. “I’m sorry John.”

John heard the door behind him swing open.

 _“Vatican Cameos!”_ He fell to the floor covering his head.

“FREEZE!” Mycroft’s eye’s widened in shock. He dropped the gun and raised his hands as several armed police officers ran into the building, surrounding him and John. “Mycroft Holmes you are under arrest for the murder of Sherlock Holmes…” As an officer John didn’t recognise proceeded to read Mycroft his rights and handcuff him John remained where he was on the floor, the world around him spinning. Eventually he felt a strong hand press down on his shoulder. He looked up to see Greg Lestrade standing over him. A hand outstretched to help him to his feet.

He accepted the hand and scrambled to his feet. “Thanks Greg.”

Greg just smiled faintly and stared at the scene in front of him in disbelief. After Mycroft had been escorted out he turned to John and finally spoke. “Why did you call the Yard and not me?”

John laughed shakily. “I knew you’d be looking out for Kitty’s number and therefore recording any calls you received from it automatically. Plus I couldn’t get my to own phone and I didn’t know your number off by heart.”

Greg smiled. “Ahh I see. Good thing we were able to trace you.”

John retrieved the phone from his sleeve. “Please tell me that it _has_ all been recorded right?” Greg nodded and John ended the call.

“We also arrested a man who had possession of Sherlock’s phone outside.”

John nodded. “Good. There was at least one more, in a cab, but they’ll be long gone.”

Greg sighed. “I’m sorry John.” John didn’t reply, and they walked back to the police cars outside in a stony silence.

* * *

 After going to the station and giving his initial statement John was free to go home. It was long past midday and he was truly exhausted. He trudged up the stairs and entered his bedroom. On his pillow was his gun, and underneath was a small note. **_“Thank You and Good Luck. – I &S.”_** He smiled and set them both on his bedside table before sliding fully clothed under the covers.

_“You did it John. Thank You.”_

‘You’re innocent Sherlock.’

_“I know, and I owe it all to you.”_

John smiled, drifting off to sleep. ‘We did it together.’

There was no reply before a dreamless sleep claimed him.


	29. It's too Quiet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's arrested. It's over, but now Sherlock isn't replying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Chapter was originally never going to happen. I was going to go from Mycroft's arrest to the last bit straight away. But I'm glad that I became inspired to write this short bit too. I think it follows on nicely to the next chapter and speaks a lot for John's character. I don't know, I just really enjoyed writing it and I hope you enjoy reading it.
> 
> Please note that I will not be going into details about Mycroft's arrest and conviction. You can assume that this chapter takes place whilst the media hype surrounding the case is still strong.

John woke up to silence. It had been a month since Mycroft’s arrest. It had also been a month since he had heard Sherlock’s voice in his head. He knew the voice hadn’t been real; it had just been his own thoughts. He missed it nonetheless. He missed Sherlock.

He felt a dull anger gnaw away inside him at himself, at Mycroft and at Sherlock, that they’d all let Moriarty best them. He tried to make himself be actually angry with the Consulting Criminal, but he couldn’t help but admire the crazed genius. Even in his death, he had triumphed over John, the smartest man John had known, and Sherlock. John smiled to himself, and tried to bring out that deep voice from within his mind. He wanted Sherlock to call him harsh or mean, or complain about him being silly for claiming Mycroft had had superior intelligence to him. The only voice he heard in his head though was his own. ‘Please Sherlock. Come back.’

There was no reply.

* * *

 

The next day he had made an appointment to see Ella. She smiled warmly as she shook his hand and gestured to the large armchair opposite her own. They sat down and Ella retrieved a notepad and pen, resting both on her knees. She waited for John to speak first.

The room was so empty. John had always thought that it was far too large for what it held. That was the point though. The room needed to be filled, it wanted to be filled, and so you let out all of your worries, secrets and problems into it. No one else but you and Ella can see or access them, but they will stay there for you. Looking around the emptiness John suddenly remembered everything he had ever said to Ella in previous sessions. He realised that there was still a lot of the space that needed filling.

He told her everything. He told her what he’d said at Sherlock’s grave after their last meeting, and all about the case that followed. He even told her about his ‘imaginary Sherlock’ that he no longer heard. Ella smiled at that, but she remained quiet until she was sure John had finished. “I know he’s been dead for months, but I just… I can’t…” John’s lower lip quivered, but he was determined to tell the truth. “I have _never_ felt more alone than I do now.”

Ella glanced down at her notepad. She had not written a single word. She picked it up and placed it onto the floor next to her. She returned her hands to her lap and relaxed slightly in her chair. She thought quietly for a few moments before speaking for the first time that session.

“The voice in your head is more common than you would think. Not just with those who have lost someone close to them. Everyone imagines what another person would say or do in a given situation. We might even imitate an action or a phrase we know someone else would do. The person we’re imagining might not even technically exist; fictitious characters we grow to like from books, TV shows or films often have as much of an influence on our actions as our friends and loved ones in real life. It became more noticeable for you because Sherlock was no longer physically present to confirm or deny those thoughts.” She paused briefly, and fidgeted slightly in her seat. She chose her next words carefully. “Were you worried about losing this voice of Sherlock’s before it actually left?”

John felt himself go rigid in his chair. He _had_ worried about it. At the end of almost every interaction he’d shared with Sherlock had felt like it could have been the last. Not trusting himself to speak, he nodded.

“It left because you no longer needed it.” She paused again and leaned forward slightly. He voice was soft, but serious.  “I’m going to be honest with you John. When we first met I was seriously worried about you. You were a man trying to find _something_ to cling onto, to keep you going. Luckily you found it. You found someone who needed you just as much as you needed them.

“I saw the news, and I read your blog; it doesn’t take a genius to figure out you loved each other.” Ella raised her hand defiantly as John started to protest. “Love does _not_ have to be sexual, romantic or even platonic John, it just has to be yours. Once more, I will not claim to be an expert on this subject. I do know though, that when love is ripped apart it _hurts_. When I saw you a few months ago you were back to the same man who I’d seen return from a war eighteen months earlier. This time you had different scars, but nevertheless the same problem. You were searching again for a purpose, and desperate for some hope. You are not that man today. I can tell you’ve found whatever you needed to find, and it has fulfilled its purpose. Now though, you need to do something very difficult.”

John’s mouth was dry. “What?” He croaked.

“You need to let it go, and say goodbye. Properly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't want to end this story with a ridiculously long Author's Note, so I'll put something here.
> 
> Thank You so much for Reading. I wrote a lot when I was younger and sort of gave up; this site and this fandom in particular have made me re-discover my love of writing. It means a lot that you've taken time out to read it.
> 
> The last bit will be up very soon, time to say Goodbye!


	30. Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John re-visits the Graveyard and prepares himself to say goodbye.

John decided to go to the grave alone. Both Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade had offered to accompany him. He had thanked them but politely declined. This is one visit he wanted to make by himself.

He stood awkwardly in front of the gravestone; he had decided to follow Ella’s advice, but now that he was there he didn’t know what to say. He stared at gold letters for several minutes until a dark chuckle escaped his lips. “Thank you for Bluebell.”

John walked towards the stone, and gingerly placed his hand upon it, like the last time he had been there. “I always believed in you Sherlock, and now everyone else knows the truth too.” John swallowed, his words slow and purposeful. “I couldn’t have done it without you, you know? You were innocent, you always were. And you, you brilliant _brilliant_ man, helped prove it even after you were gone. I suppose it pleases me, but it does also pains me to say it. To say ‘were’ instead of ‘are’.” John choked, but forced himself to continue, he had to say it; no more holding back. “Sherlock, I’m sorry. I…” He sank to his knees, and sobbed loudly into his hands.

“You’re sorry John? For what exactly?”

“You died for me,” John gasped between his tears, “to protect me. To save me.”

“Did I?” John felt a strong hand press down gently on his shoulder. He lifted his head and turned it slightly to see long pale fingers. The voice hadn’t been inside his head. John stood up slowly, the hand stayed on his shoulder as he rose. He turned. His blue eyes found green ones, gazing back at him, glistening. There were the untamed dark curls, slightly longer but just as messy, and the pale lips of one Sherlock Holmes. Holmes smiled at his friend’s stunned expression and shed a single tear as he laughed. “I’m alive John.”

Quickly overcoming his shock, John launched himself into a hug, wrapping his arms tightly around Sherlock’s taller, thinner frame. The embrace was returned strongly. John’s mind exploded with a thousand questions, but he quickly shovelled them away into his Mind Field, there would be plenty of time for that later. He realised he had never actually hugged Sherlock before, and his arms tightened automatically. He had come to say goodbye, and he had been ready to say goodbye. Sherlock Holmes was here though; he was alive and breathing. John felt his joy sober slightly at the knowledge that the ‘goodbye’ still wouldn’t wait forever. He didn’t care though. He didn’t have to say it _now_. He was too happy.

Reluctantly John ended the hug and took a step back, examining his friend. He appeared to be exhausted, and he was looking at John expectantly. John had not yet spoken and chuckled slightly. “Hello. Hello Sherlock Holmes.”

They both smiled.


End file.
